People came in and out. Each one was him for one heart-lurching moment and then not him. A mechanic in an oil-patched boiler suit, too young. A car’s brakes squeaking, the middle-aged couple arguing as they got out, the man blond-haired. He was tall and with a sizeable beer belly, stretching, holding his hip.

Joe hadn’t aged in all these years, not for Matty. He’d stayed the same slight, bouncing figure, reduced to simple elements: brown-blond hair, stubble, seventies leather jacket, nod, cigarette. ‘God, I’m never getting old,’ he’d said once. ‘Nothing good up at that end of things. Give me a quick death, in my sleep, before it gets too gruesome.’ And he’d clicked his fingers, lolled his head and stuck his tongue out. Opened one eye and winked.

After an hour, Matty got out of the van.

A teenager wearing a Miami Dolphins cap was on reception, singing along quietly to an Oasis song on the radio and turning the page of a magazine.

Matty got to the desk. Mouth dry. ‘Is there, uh, a Joseph Ronan here? Or Joe?’

The boy had swiftly closed the magazine, a woman with big tits on the cover. Put his hands over it. ‘There’s not.’ His eyebrows pulled together. ‘There’s a Jimmy. He runs it. He’s not here so much nowadays, but he’ll be back around later. Is it him you want, now?’ He looked encouraging.

Jimmy. Would he have changed it? ‘Um. Probably not.’ Matty’s throat felt dry. It would be too weird to ask how old he was. ‘What time’s he back?’

There was a women’s swimwear calendar on the wall, the girl’s legs impossibly splayed, her costume high above her hips. The reception guy caught Matty’s gaze, his grin snagged halfway, and blushed. He scratched behind an ear and quickly put his hand back over the front of the magazine. ‘About five, I think. Shall I tell him who’s calling?’

‘No, it’s cool. Thanks.’

Recognise me?

Know who I am?

Yeah. It’s me.

You thought you’d seen the back of me, didn’t you? Think again.

A few hours of driving around, before returning at 4.30 p.m. Drinking strawberry Slim-Fast and eating the odd Skittle. Rehearsing, with slight variations, depending on how aggressive the imagined scenario became. Sometimes it was conciliatory, immediately forgiving. Sometimes it was purely violent. A red car pulled up, low and sleek, and Matty stilled.

The man went inside, a white polo shirt, keys in his hand. He was about the right height. Grey hair.

Matty stayed put, biting a fingernail. The last Skittle sucked slowly and turning to grains.

He came out again with the receptionist, who was showing him a particular van, pointing above a tyre. For a moment, the man glanced up, over the road, towards the camper.

Matty sank down into the seat, stared at the wheel.

It wasn’t him.

***