He unlocked the door and Davey followed him into a room where time stood still. It was 1989 and those final days before Johnny was taken to a hospice for respite. Back then he knew deep down he’d never return to the house that couldn’t cater for his increasing needs and to a mother of strong mind and weak back. He knew before anyone that change was going to come. Song lyrics were splashed across his bedroom wall; they must have taken him hours to scribble down. Davey could see the shake in his hands in the lettering. He could feel the heartbreak still hanging in the air. Black marker bled onto the white wall. He could picture Johnny on his navy and white striped duvet, listening to the tapes that were piled on the wooden floor and against the wall beside an old ghetto blaster with two tape decks. There were two large posters, one of Kitchen Sink with Johnny front and centre, a strong and convincing lead singer, surrounded by Francie, Jay, Louis and Davey all smiling, happy, excited, naïve. The other one was Davey’s second band with Johnny, the one they formed when they already knew he was sick: The Sound. The line-up was the same, except by now Kev had replaced Louis. Johnny was still at the front but he seemed removed, apart, untouchable, and there was an inherent sadness in his eyes. No one smiled in that photo. To young girls back then it may have seemed sexy, but to grown men it was heartbreaking. The joy was gone. Francie stood by the window. Davey moved towards Johnny’s locker. It still held personal items – a brush, some hair mousse and a medal on a chain – but Davey was staring at the photo stuck to Johnny’s cracked old mirror. It was of Johnny and Rabbit, arm in arm, both grinning madly. She had grown up by then, her long sleek brown hair was highlighted, her glasses were gone, she was lithe and effortlessly pretty. He was his handsome self. The way they were. He touched the photo ever so gently, afraid to damage such a precious relic.

‘This place hasn’t changed a bit. Feels like he’s just out, gone to the shop and he’ll be back any minute. He’ll walk through that door and ask us what the fuck we’re doing here,’ Davey said before joining his friend at the window. Behind the terraced houses was a high old grey wall with bits of green glass sticking out of the concrete. Davey could visualise his friend running along the wall in tight jeans, leather jacket, big hobnail boots and always wearing some kind of hat. Balance wasn’t an issue back then – he was like a cat, stopping to stand behind the Byrnes’ place.