The petrol gauge showed empty. Pearly drove to a late-night service station and filled up. He knew the proprietor slightly. A nimble guy who used to play halfback for Celtic and had three wirehaired terriers called Super, Ninety-One and Diesel. Neither owner nor dogs were there, just an elderly woman at the counter, whom Pearly could see through the glass as he stood at the pumps. He was surprised that she was alone there at such a time, in such a place, and said as much when he went in to pay. ‘Oh, Glyn’s coming soon,’ she said. ‘I’m just filling in.’

Her hair was long, well brushed and grey, her face heavily lined, and she seemed completely at ease. Pearly supposed she was Glyn’s mother but knew better than to voice that assumption. ‘So you’re Glyn’s wife?’ he said.

‘His mother, and I know you’re Pearly Gates. Years ago I worked at the council. Mainly clerical jobs, permits, reports, stuff like that. A bit of public liaison. All well before your time.’

Pearly was about to reply when his stomach intervened. A surprisingly loud, high-pitched, squeezed sound like a piglet rolled on by the sow. It seemed to go on for a long time while Pearly and the woman stood and looked at each other. As the tone deepened and the volume subsided, Pearly apologised and tried to maintain dignity in his withdrawal. When he was at the door, he turned and saw Glyn’s mother smiling at him. ‘Never mind, Pearly,’ she said clearly, calmly. ‘It could have been a fart.’

He never mentioned the incident when he was home with Helen. He didn’t go back to Glyn’s petrol station for a long time. All in all, it hadn’t been a great day.

Pearly woke on the morning following the return from Christchurch in the presence of the woman who walked with Jesus. He wasn’t especially surprised. Sometimes, between waking up and getting up, Pearly was visited by women he’d known. Perhaps it was because his body was refreshed and eager after sleep, perhaps because consciousness was still partly embedded in dream. Mostly they were young women and from a past when he himself was young. Mostly his involvement with them had included sex, but the physical ecstasy of lovemaking doesn’t lend itself to transfer by recollection, and the memories were more often of incident and personality, the reflection on them those of enquiry, fondness or regret. A few relationships had ended with dramatic declaration — emotional accusations and exchanges that Pearly always feared and attempted to avoid, but most, at least in retrospect, had just faded to casual, or lost, acquaintanceship because of the humdrum dictates of everyday life: the end of an academic course, a job placement elsewhere, a family shift, increasing interest in subjects not shared.