As he came through the main street, Pearly noticed the shop and street lights as a gliding and colourful reflection on the bonnet of the car. He had polished the Falcon with turtle wax just the day before, and the evidence of his husbandry pleased him as did the knowledge that he had vacuumed the mats and blackened the tyres. No whiff remained of David’s vomit. He disliked any evidence of neglect in possessions or appearance and took it as a sign of lethargy and a lack of self-respect, an attitude that had led to many clashes with his son. Pearly had once decided not to employ the best-qualified candidate for a position at Rawleigh and Gates because the guy’s shoes were dirty. Helen had laughed at him. ‘It’s indicative,’ Pearly had told her, unswayed. ‘It’s indicative of a general attitude.’

The offices, shops and services had a gloss bestowed by the lights in the summer night, and Pearly, as mayor, was pleased in a proprietorial way. There had been discussion at the last council meeting about revitalisation of the central business area. The reunion would bring a lot of people to the town from bigger places, and Pearly didn’t want his home disparaged. But everything was looking okay, he told himself. And he, too, was okay, apart from a few niggles from old injuries and some weight gain. Things were okay — he was mayor for a third term, his marriage and health were fine, his business was profiting from a nationwide surge in real estate values, and the reunion would be fun. Pearly began to hum the tune of an ABBA song, ‘Dancing Queen’. He’d always enjoyed ABBA. Pearly stopped humming and began to sing, softly, about Friday nights, lights and places to go, lifting one hand from the wheel to mark the tempo. The lights flickered. Pearly felt old and young at the same time. He had the scent, the taste even, of youth. He gunned the Falcon briefly turning up the hill. He liked ABBA. ABBA were fucking great.

It wasn’t so great, though, once he was home, to have the phantom malcontent ring again. ‘Someone for you. Didn’t give a name,’ said Helen, coming back into the living room. Pearly took the phone and recognised the voice immediately; not the hoarse and sinister whisper of a Hollywood thriller, but the quick, rather high-pitched voice of male vindictiveness. ‘So, fuckwit, how’s it going? Everyone I talk to says you’re doing a crap job. You only got in because you had no opposition worth a shit. Utterspan would have kicked your hairy arse.’

‘Would you like to give me your name?’ said Pearly mildly.

‘I’d like to give you a bullet, you useless bastard. On and on about the bloody port that will only put more money in the pockets of your business mates and nothing for the rest of us.’