Gwenda’s words recalled for me the cavernous pits of grief into which she and many others in my congregations had descended over the years at times of loss. The fatal car accidents; the terminal cancers; the two cot deaths in one family; suicides and so many divorces. I’d walked alongside, and sometimes quite literally held up so many who’d experienced lost hope, uncertain faith and the wrenching hurts of separation. I realised that the news of Joel’s death had sparked none of these within me.

The seiat ended with cups of tea, relaxed conversation and Dilys Morris-Jones the newsagent’s bara brith. After we’d talked, drunk tea, and eaten; all the rituals done, people made their way home. After locking up the building, I walked back to the manse intending an early night.

Cheryl’s letter lay open on the table. The sight of it brought Joel back to me. Sitting, watching the lights across the estuary play on the waters of the in-coming tide, I began to make some sense of my feelings. I was sad about Joel’s death, but not grieving for him, for hadn’t I already grieved the loss of our relationship at the time of my return to Wales? But I was shocked that Joel had been infected with HIV and that he’d developed AIDS. And I was anxious – even afraid, because our communion had been carnal at a time before safer sex and condoms had become routine.

I got the number of the National AIDS Helpline, dialled without hesitation, and spoke with the counsellor. I had to stifle my need to persuade her that Joel couldn’t have been HIV positive all those years ago. Her voice was pacifying, but my anxiety only deepened when she said that she couldn’t speculate as to when he’d been infected. She talked to me for a long time about testing. The implications of a positive or negative result, how the choice had to be informed, and that before deciding to be tested I’d need to have some fairly clear idea of what I’d do if the result were positive. She was patient and understanding; I could hardly take it all in. She gave me the phone number of a clinic at the hospital in Wrexham where the test could be done. It was past midnight when I hung up the phone.

My blood was drawn off and the small glass vial was sealed in a plastic bag marked BIOHAZARD in bold, red letters.

‘It will be a week before the result comes back, Iwan,’ the nurse said in broad Glaswegian. ‘You do have to come back to get the result. We don’t give HIV results by letter or over the phone.’ The doctor had been careful, before taking the blood, to establish that it was legitimate to test me and she’d asked about risky behaviours… unprotected sexual intercourse… shared injecting equipment.