up. They had to.
Much to my relief, Sarah and Kyle were waiting for me on the platform. They ran towards me, smiling, and we all jumped up and down on the spot a couple of times like schoolchildren, linked arms and danced in a circle, and then got some guy with long matted hair and a grey-blue rucksack to take a photo of us in front of the sign that marked the beginning of the West Highland Way. I hadn’t seen Kyle giggle for years. What a difference! This was going to be the most incredible holiday, I thought to myself.
Which was true in the end.
We walked to the leafy suburb that edged the city and bounced alongside squirrels in a large country park. For several hours we meandered with the lush flat farmland, and then sat by a burn and ate fresh banana cake and drank hot chocolate prepared by Sarah that morning in a whizz-bang thermos. A whisky distillery was beside us, Highland cows were in the fields adjacent, and we felt like we were on the set of a Scottish tourism ad.
Over lunch we traded stories about people Kyle and I had gone to uni with.
‘Chas was so in love with you,’ Kyle said.
‘Rubbish,’ I replied.
‘You knew! He followed you around like a puppy dog!’
‘You’re full of shite, McGibbon.’
After Chas dropped out of medicine and started working and taking drugs, we still lived together and had lots of fun, but working and university seemed like different universes back then. A while later he disappeared to God knows where without even saying goodbye. When he materialised afterwards he was a bit weird with me and almost immediately ended up in Sandhill Prison.
It was Kyle who broke the news to me.
‘You’ll never guess who got eight years at the Old Bailey!’ he said over the phone one evening.
I don’t normally do things that are a waste of time, like reading joke emails or guessing, but Kyle hounded me. ‘Guess, go on, you never will …’
‘Um, Ewan McGregor.’
‘No.’
‘Your mum.’
‘Nup.’
‘Your dad.’
‘My dad’s dead.’
‘Oh, shit, sorry … (Pause) … He is not dead!’ I remembered.
‘It’s Chas, you dick. Chas!’ said Kyle.
I was gobsmacked. Chas was so gentle he befriended ants, and had never so much as stolen a sweetie from the corner shop as far as I knew.
‘Why? What’d he do?’
Kyle didn’t know much. It was attempted murder, he’d heard, something to do with an incident at a tube station involving a shopping trolley. Chas had gone mad, what with all the drug-taking, obviously. Rumour had it he’d brandished the trolley proclaiming to know the truth about this and that.
Kyle and I suspected that he may well have known the truth about this and that because Chas was always right about everything. What we couldn’t grasp was how he got a shopping trolley through the turnstile at Angel underground, down two sets of escalators, and what he actually did with the trolley once he was there. Did he ram the passengers? Add them to his basket?
After they transferred Chas from London to Glasgow, I visited him three times. This wasn’t easy, as I couldn’t just show up. Chas had to arrange his own visits, then ring and let his visitors know when to come. But he didn’t ring me or write. I sent him several awkward letters, not wanting to be overly jovial so as to remind him of what he’d lost and send him off the third-floor landing in B Hall, but not wanting to be underly jovial either, so as to remind him of the meaninglessness of life and send him off the third-floor landing in B Hall.
Hey Chas,
I’m sitting in the university cafe and it’s pissing with rain and even my chips with curry sauce seem dull. I miss you! I don’t understand why you won’t write back, but please do, and please arrange a visit. I want to ask you about what happened, tell you what I’ve been up to.
Please ring me. I’m in most evenings (life is very boring for me at the moment). I can visit any time as I now spend all my working day in the car,
Much to my relief, Sarah and Kyle were waiting for me on the platform. They ran towards me, smiling, and we all jumped up and down on the spot a couple of times like schoolchildren, linked arms and danced in a circle, and then got some guy with long matted hair and a grey-blue rucksack to take a photo of us in front of the sign that marked the beginning of the West Highland Way. I hadn’t seen Kyle giggle for years. What a difference! This was going to be the most incredible holiday, I thought to myself.
Which was true in the end.
We walked to the leafy suburb that edged the city and bounced alongside squirrels in a large country park. For several hours we meandered with the lush flat farmland, and then sat by a burn and ate fresh banana cake and drank hot chocolate prepared by Sarah that morning in a whizz-bang thermos. A whisky distillery was beside us, Highland cows were in the fields adjacent, and we felt like we were on the set of a Scottish tourism ad.
Over lunch we traded stories about people Kyle and I had gone to uni with.
‘Chas was so in love with you,’ Kyle said.
‘Rubbish,’ I replied.
‘You knew! He followed you around like a puppy dog!’
‘You’re full of shite, McGibbon.’
After Chas dropped out of medicine and started working and taking drugs, we still lived together and had lots of fun, but working and university seemed like different universes back then. A while later he disappeared to God knows where without even saying goodbye. When he materialised afterwards he was a bit weird with me and almost immediately ended up in Sandhill Prison.
It was Kyle who broke the news to me.
‘You’ll never guess who got eight years at the Old Bailey!’ he said over the phone one evening.
I don’t normally do things that are a waste of time, like reading joke emails or guessing, but Kyle hounded me. ‘Guess, go on, you never will …’
‘Um, Ewan McGregor.’
‘No.’
‘Your mum.’
‘Nup.’
‘Your dad.’
‘My dad’s dead.’
‘Oh, shit, sorry … (Pause) … He is not dead!’ I remembered.
‘It’s Chas, you dick. Chas!’ said Kyle.
I was gobsmacked. Chas was so gentle he befriended ants, and had never so much as stolen a sweetie from the corner shop as far as I knew.
‘Why? What’d he do?’
Kyle didn’t know much. It was attempted murder, he’d heard, something to do with an incident at a tube station involving a shopping trolley. Chas had gone mad, what with all the drug-taking, obviously. Rumour had it he’d brandished the trolley proclaiming to know the truth about this and that.
Kyle and I suspected that he may well have known the truth about this and that because Chas was always right about everything. What we couldn’t grasp was how he got a shopping trolley through the turnstile at Angel underground, down two sets of escalators, and what he actually did with the trolley once he was there. Did he ram the passengers? Add them to his basket?
After they transferred Chas from London to Glasgow, I visited him three times. This wasn’t easy, as I couldn’t just show up. Chas had to arrange his own visits, then ring and let his visitors know when to come. But he didn’t ring me or write. I sent him several awkward letters, not wanting to be overly jovial so as to remind him of what he’d lost and send him off the third-floor landing in B Hall, but not wanting to be underly jovial either, so as to remind him of the meaninglessness of life and send him off the third-floor landing in B Hall.
Hey Chas,
I’m sitting in the university cafe and it’s pissing with rain and even my chips with curry sauce seem dull. I miss you! I don’t understand why you won’t write back, but please do, and please arrange a visit. I want to ask you about what happened, tell you what I’ve been up to.
Please ring me. I’m in most evenings (life is very boring for me at the moment). I can visit any time as I now spend all my working day in the car,
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