The small television on a stand at the end of the bed was showing a talent quest programme, and although the set was on mute, the judges and contestants mouthed and cavorted as Pearly, propped up by pillows, sat and thought about the council meeting he would attend on Wednesday evening. He must remember to mention Rob Prendergast. Helen used the remote to give voice to the television, and after watching the singing and dancing for a short time, Pearly jettisoned one of his pillows and lay down, facing towards his wife. He was used to the television being on while he was in bed. It didn’t stop him thinking, planning or sleeping. Helen would turn it off when she felt ready for sleep herself. There were times when the programmes became strangely incorporated into his dreams: his dead mother talking with an American accent, the music of Beyoncé swelling through a vision of a council meeting invaded by protesters with antediluvian pets. Other dreams, some freighted with distorted memories. Gumbo spewing in his father’s car after they had been drinking at the reservoir dam. Games in which he’d played well, or missed chances that were still regretted. Games in which he’d never featured but had longed to do so. Pearly often wondered how far he could have gone were it not for injury. Vivid realisations of unrequited ambition continued to surface in his sleep despite his waking acceptance that such opportunity was long past.

The night was warm. Pearly pushed aside the duvet, but not so far that it would double up on Helen’s side, who was sitting to watch the screen, the light from which played over her face in unflattering plague colours of tallow white, pale greens and blues. It was a good face, however, and the expressions were ones of perceptive humour and attention, subtly and unconsciously changing in response to the images. Pearly found it no hardship to watch his wife, and doing so he fell asleep.

TWO