‘There’s lots of us, Pearly. Lots of us you know who don’t rate you at all, who think you’re a fucking wanker and out just for yourself.’

‘Okay, you’ve got that off your chest. You can crawl back into your hole now,’ said Pearly.

‘It can’t last, Pearly. The shit hits the fan in the end, doesn’t it? Soon, Pearly, soon.’

Pearly made no reply, replaced the receiver. Why give the guy the satisfaction of venting his spite. Pearly wasn’t frightened at all, just a little surprised at the level of his annoyance. When you have a profile in the community, support is open, envy and resentment less visible but perhaps no less active. ‘Just a target,’ said Pearly to himself. Next time he’d ring off as soon as he recognised the voice, and when the nutter didn’t get any response surely he’d stop ringing. And why would the guy ring the hall number when he could phone Pearly directly? Maybe just to show that he knew where Pearly would be, what he was up to?

Pearly picked up the green shoe and ran his hand over the shiny surface of the leather. It was almost new, and only the little black stub at the end of the stiletto heel was worn. On the instep it said ‘Jan Baran, Made in Italy’. Maybe the calls had something to do with Deidre Utterspan, his letter and her husband’s withdrawal from the mayoral race. ‘No,’ said Pearly softly. He wasn’t proud of that now. Some part of him wasn’t reconciled to what he’d done despite the strong argument he could put up in justification. He closed the door and sat by the small wooden desk in the cramped room. He guessed it was some sort of an interview space because it lacked clear identification or personality. No books or files, nothing on the wall except the instructions for action in emergency and a diagram showing the assembly area. Four chrome and grey-plastic chairs and leaning in one corner a cheap fishing rod. Pearly thought of his letter to Deidre and tried to persuade himself that he had no need to be ashamed. He sat for some time, but the self-recrimination only grew.