In the dream that finally freed Pearly from unwelcome reality there was nothing of the present. He was on the representative team’s bus, heading into Central Otago. That familiar boisterous fellowship of young men, most asserting themselves like fronting game cocks, a few quieter because they were not established players, or because their ascendancy was assured. The sense of both relaxation and anticipation as they lounged in the seats, or leant forward to talk to mates, and the warmth within the bus in contrast to the landscape they moved through. Black ice on the sharp and shadowed corners of Manuka Gorge, a white frost in the valley in which even stock seemed frozen to immobility, viscous snow gleaming on the western hills. There was a sense of progress, of going somewhere, of being on the way — a sense of purpose, that’s what it was.

Pearly initially felt the pleasure of being there, cocooned within the vehicle and buoyed by the sense of team, yet as he looked at those about him he realised that not one face was familiar or turned in his direction, and when he spoke no one responded. Conversations went on around him that had no meaning, yet he felt it vital that he understand. ‘They reckon it’s a bloody circus in Isosceles,’ someone said. It made no sense.

‘Yep. It’ll be a comfort cow for registration,’ someone replied.

‘Who are we playing?’ asked Pearly urgently. ‘Who’s the opposition?’

No one took any notice. The frozen world continued to flow past outside.

The unpleasant realisation came to Pearly that all his companions were strangers, even the coach, a thick-necked figure who turned in his seat behind the driver, levelled a finger at Pearly and said, ‘You! Yes you, Buster. Who the fuck are you?’ That’s the way it is with dreams.

TWENTY-ONE

The celebration had turned sour for Pearly. After the success of the earlier events the concluding formal dinner had proved a disaster: not so much because he’d been so easily surpassed in relevance by Andrew, but that he acknowledged to himself, if not to others, that he bore considerable responsibility for what had happened to Gumbo. All of that returned to him with a dull ache in the morning, quickly dispelling his customary optimism on waking. He realised how complacently over the years he had accepted as of right Gumbo’s cheerful, unfailing loyalty. Helen was still sleeping when he quietly left the bed and went into the living room to ring the hospital. It was only a little after six o’clock, and he was told the surgeon wasn’t available to discuss Gumbo’s condition. At least he knew he was alive. Pearly made himself a coffee then rang Dr Mulvey without apology for waking him. He knew the GP wouldn’t have news since the operation, but he’d been there when Gumbo was admitted and might know something of his injuries.