He wasn’t left long sitting on the vinyl bench, with the list of visitor information and instructions on the wall above but no sign of Alistair Sissons’s donated painting. But of course, he then realised, Alistair had been treated in a Christchurch private hospital. The surgical registrar came to greet him — Finn Taylor. ‘I’ve checked on Mr Reece this morning,’ he said. ‘He’s come through quite well. Some nasty fractures, so plates in the leg and the jaw, but we hope that we won’t have to operate to relieve swelling of the brain. Often in this sort of fall there’s damage to the spleen, but we’re keeping an eye on that. He’s conscious, but pretty woozy.’

‘I’d very much appreciate it if I could see him. I was with him last night at the high-school reunion dinner when it happened. He’s divorced and hasn’t any children. I’d like to ask him if there’s anyone who should be notified. I wouldn’t stay long.’

‘Well, we can see how he is. Maybe a quick visit.’

The head end of Gumbo’s bed wasn’t raised, and he lay flat with the plaster cast of his left leg like a log outside the cover. His face was swollen and bruised, the jaw bandaged and taped, but his eyes met Pearly’s keenly, and he gave a small nod and moved his lips. He lifted a hand gingerly, and Pearly took it. ‘Serves me right for playing silly buggers. It was wearing socks that did it,’ said Gumbo indistinctly, moving his mouth as little as possible. ‘No proper grip, you see.’ His injury caused further distortion to a voice already distinctive.

The doctor watched them. ‘Just five minutes, please, Mr Gates. You’re welcome back later in the day,’ and he left the small ward of four beds.

One of the other beds was occupied. A hairless, sunburnt man with a protruding Adam’s apple that went up and down like a fairground ringer when he swallowed. He watched and listened to what went on at Gumbo’s bed with unabashed attention, and when Pearly was putting the number of Gumbo’s sister into his phone, the sunburnt man pointed one hand towards Pearly and said, ‘I’ve got it. I should’ve twigged when the doc said “Gates”. You’re the mayor. Pearly Gates. Of course you are. I seen your photo often enough.’

‘Right,’ said Pearly.

‘Alan’s going to be okay, I reckon.’