Peter closed his eyes. But each time he did so he was back there, warming himself by the fire. ‘Surely you were with him’ they had said. He knew his pronounced northern accent gave him away. ‘I have no idea what you are talking out. I don’t *** know the man’. The words were sharp on his tongue, causing him to wince, and open his eyes.

His eyes had met those of his master’s. The master’s eyes were not angry, still loving, although for him they were distant now. Hope had gone. Nothing would go back to the way it was, but he would go back to being Simon. The claim that he would be the sturdy one on which anything could be built was now hollow and so desperately sad.

He could not meet the eyes of his companions. They knew what he had done. No one had said anything. There was nothing to be said. Each one had ran away. Only he had denied knowing the man who had turned their lives upside down. He put his head in his hands. As he did so, the sunlight danced through a crack in the wall, and he thought that he remembered something. Fleetingly. Imperceptibly. And then it was gone.

It was a day of nothingness. They would go home eventually, although nothing would be the same. Follow me, he had said. Simon’s eyes welled with tears; hot, bittered, and tired. He had tried. His strength had gone. ‘You are a Galilean’. ‘I don’t know the man!’

His eyes closed once more. It had been after synagogue when they had first met. Simon always went. It was more than a habit. His wife had invited the young preacher back. Simon wanted to smile at the memory of Jesus healing his mother-in-law, and afterwards showing them how to fish. But he could not bring himself to smile. He had let the master down; he had let himself down.

Simon rolled over again and struggled to remember. He could not. The pieces no longer made sense. And he was back again by the fire.