As Pearly drifted into sleep the things of most recent reflection formed an outlandish melange. Physically ruined Rob Prendergast hand in hand with Deidre Utterspan, plunging awkwardly through the bracken, with pigs and dogs in tumultuous contest close at their heels. And Pearly following, holding aloft a squealing microphone that prevented his shouted advice from having any effect.

ELEVEN

There was a meeting arranged in Christchurch to discuss greater integration of local body planning for South Island tourism. The minister was to open the plenary session, and the head of the Ministry of Business, Innovation and Employment was to give a keynote address. Christchurch City Council would host a dinner at which the civic events director from Fresno, California, would give a speech on the creation of unique urban identity. Pearly wasn’t all that keen — he had enough on — but the council’s communications officer urged him to go. Dunedin’s mayor was going, she pointed out. Almost all of the mayors as far as she could ascertain. It wouldn’t look so good if Pearly were the only east coast leader not attending, she said. To be there would be a declaration of a more inclusive, overarching vision for the town. She didn’t mention the coming election specifically.

Pearly and David Congreve drove up together on a cold, wet afternoon. The CEO wore his long coat even in the car and rubbed his hands together from time to time with a noise like sandpaper. Pearly turned up the heating. He was sometimes impatient with David’s cautious, conservative efficiency yet wasn’t so young that he still blamed anyone for growing old. The CEO was old by temperament rather than years, not all that much senior to Pearly himself. They worked together professionally, went to each other’s homes occasionally to reinforce their partnership by social interaction, yet somehow there was a lack of personal connection. Pearly didn’t know the man’s essential nature, didn’t know what he cherished and what he feared.

During the lengthy trip north Pearly largely avoided business talk and tried to find other topics the two of them could share. He remarked on the number of milk tankers on the road, the flurry of dirty water from wheel throw that made them difficult to pass in wet weather; he mentioned his satisfaction with the Falcon as an open-road car, recalled a tramping trip he had made in the high country at the head of the Rangitata and described the Maori cave drawings on his home farm. David wasn’t animated by any of these subjects, volunteered no substitutes, and for the latter part of the journey they talked little. Pearly was okay with that. He’d done his bit for fellowship. ‘Actually,’ said David as they were checking in at the hotel, ‘I don’t feel so good.’ His faintly equine face was even paler than usual, his eyes sunk beneath grey, birds’-nest eyebrows.