‘I can see him calling to me and Jay: “Let’s go, come on”. Stamping his feet on the broken glass and my ma shouting, “Get down, ya fool, before you fucking impale yourself”.’

Davey nodded and chuckled at the memory.

‘He never did. He’d just laugh and run the length of that wall, passing twelve houses and gardens, saying hello as he did,’ he said, and Davey could hear the emotion in his voice.

‘There ya are, Johnny, you playing any gigs lately?’ Francie said in a high voice, imitating an auld one.

‘Ah yeah, Mrs T, we’re in the Baggot, come and see us,’ Davey said, joining in.

‘Ah now, I’m too old for all that but I’ll tell my Tina, she loves ya, Johnny,’ Francie said, and he sniffed. ‘All the girls loved Johnny, but he only ever loved one girl.’

Davey nodded, craning his neck to follow the length of wall to its end. ‘He’d run the full length of that wall and jump down and unlock the bike he’d attached to the lamp post in the laneway, and he’d wait for you to make your way to him on bikes, the long way round.’

‘Yeah, well, the Byrne brothers didn’t do walls. If I wanted to be an acrobat I’d have joined a circus,’ Francie said.

‘Johnny used to say you wouldn’t need to be an acrobat to join the circus, the state of ya,’ Davey said.

Francie chuckled to himself. ‘He had a point.’

Davey could hear and see his dead friend as clearly as if he was in front of him. Everything was the same: the high grey-speckled wall, the green bottle glass sticking out, the old garage, even the cloudy sky. All that was missing was Johnny.

There was a candle half burned in the old wrought iron fireplace, and on its mantelpiece rested a King James Bible and a small brass statue of Jesus carrying his cross. There was an old beaten-up leather chair in the corner and two guitars on a stand next to it. Davey sat down on the chair, picked up a guitar and played a few chords. Francie lay on Johnny’s bed and closed his eyes before reciting the words written above him on the wall.

Dear God, you have forsaken me, a boy who loved unconditionally.

The pious say you hear my cry but are you there, Lord, as I die?

You made it so this dreamer’s dreams would end as they began,

This lucky boy, unlucky man,

A blinding light, a buzzing ceiling fan, a thumb to grip,

A man undone but no longer sick.

Davey turned to look at the writing scrawled on the wall above the small black fireplace. Francie knew it all off by heart. He recited the words that Davey could see, the slanted, unsteady, unsure penmanship.

Dear God, I’ll be again