‘Well, it’s not terribly …’

‘Please? For old times’ sake?’

‘Oh, Michael, darling, you know I could never deny you anything. But don’t get angry if you don’t like what you find there.’

There was a light under the door when we got back to the Queensway flat, and the radio was tuned to a rock and roll station. My heart jumped, and I pushed past Stephen into the kitchen. He was sitting there in a vest, his hair longer and slicked back, eating beans on toast, a mug of tea beside the plate, a fag burning in the ashtray. He didn’t look up at first.

‘Aircraftman Wright.’

Then he looked up.

‘Aircraftman Medway.’ He pushed back his chair, looked me up and down. Through his vest, I could see the familiar contours of his torso.

‘Aaaah,’ sighed Stephen in the doorway. We both turned and glared at him. ‘All right! All right! I’ll leave you two together!’ He went to the living room, singing at the top of his voice ‘Now I shout it from the highest hill, even told the golden daffodil …’

Wright stood up, shook his arms.

‘How have you been, Michael?’

‘Not bad. You?’

‘Yeah. Never better.’ And then some smoke got in his eyes, he rubbed them and stumbled forward and we ended up in each other’s arms, breathing as if we were fighting for air.

08

The first contact from Jonathan in months, and it’s typically dramatic. A text, while I’m at work. ‘Please come over now I’ve done something stupid.’ That’s hardly news, and so I don’t reply straight away, because Jonathan’s idea of a crisis usually involves not having the right shoes. I’ve got to keep my head down and be a good boy at work. There have been too many days off with ‘flu’, too many missed deadlines. Anna is cracking the whip and I had better jump or I’ll be joining Jonathan in the ranks of the self-employed.

In fact, I’m enjoying work more than I’ve ever done. Perhaps ‘enjoying’ is the wrong word – but I’m happy to be there because it offers a respite from the chaos everywhere else, including home. It’s the only thing standing between me and total meltdown, not to mention poverty, losing the flat, moving back in with my parents, and suicide within six months. So really I’m quite motivated at the moment.

The time flies by and I haven’t thought about my problems for hours. I’m on my way to the gym when I turn my phone on again, and there’s a voice message this time. It’s not Jonathan, but it’s about him.

He’s in hospital, unconscious, possibly in a coma, and they found my number on a note that he’d left in his flat. Please could I contact them as soon as possible.

A note? What sort of note? Like a suicide note?

I’ve got to go to the gym, because today is the day I do back and legs and I’m hoping to see Andy because I’m getting very low on steroids and if I don’t take them I’m going to start losing bulk and what’s the point of doing what I do if I’m going to lose bulk and then suddenly I realise that this is Jonathan, my best friend even though we haven’t spoken for a long time, in hospital, possibly dying, and he’s asking for me.