Farewell Trip. Gary Twynam

and take advantage. Sat here with what’s left of your ashes, and your box of letters.

      It’s just a box; a flat, plain box. You could at least have found a nice box, Trip, for your final present: nine plain envelopes. The top one says, Letter 1: Lampeter. Then eight more envelopes, and pages and pages of timetables, itineraries, and a larger brown envelope saying, Do not open until instructed.

      I can’t believe you did this. When did you do this, and why? Why on earth would you? I know we spoke about this but I never took it seriously. How come I never knew?

      Drive to Lampeter. Stay in The Falcondale. Walk to the top of Magic Mushroom Mountain and open the first letter. I can’t believe it’s a month since I first read that instruction. We often discussed what should happen to us after our deaths, didn’t we? It’s never bothered me much — just tip me in a cardboard box and bury me under some trees, I won’t be around to see it.

      But you, you were always quite specific.

      ‘I want my ashes scattered in places that have meant something to me, staging posts; lots of places, actually. You’re going to have to go round the world, scattering me bit by bit.’

      ‘A limb here, an eye there, that’s very touching. How do you imagine me doing this, pray? And where shall I put your willy?’

      ‘Steady on. Let’s see. How about Penistone or Cockfosters? Ooh, no, I know: Cockermouth. Perfect. Pretty please; if you loved me you would.’

      ‘Go on then. I’ll do it, and I’ll bring a date.’

      Of course, I’ve looked at all the envelopes so I know the itinerary: Lampeter, Siena, Cornwall, Paris, Sydney, New York, Shropshire, Bristol, Reigate.

      Some of it half appeals. Some of it is obvious. Only some of it, though; and some of it worries me: Shropshire. Why there, Trip? And Reigate. What, I’m going to have to go to your parents’? And Sydney — surely not?

      I don’t know why I’m talking to you like this, like you’re here with me. You want to know something, love? I had no intention of coming. The thought of coming back here was too much. I wanted to do what you’d asked but, well …

      In fact, whilst you’re taking my confession, this isn’t the first time I’ve read this letter. I read it a week ago, at home, drunk.

      When I found the letters I decided to read them all, one after the other. But then I read the first one and I could hear you talking to me, so real. It felt like I had a piece of you back. Part of me wanted to tear open all the other letters and devour them, but a bigger part of me was ashamed that I hadn’t done what you’d wanted. So I came here, to start again. To see how it went. And now you’ve made me want to carry on, do them all.

      So here I am, Trip, in Conti’s. Doing as you wanted. God, I need a tissue. I’ll have to use the paper napkin. I’m not going to cry again. I’m not. Not in Conti’s. Not in front of Mr Conti.

      Concentrate on something else. Read your letter again.

       Letter 1: Lampeter

       Allow me a guess. You’re not on top of Magic Mushroom Mountain, are you? I knew it. Allow me two more guesses. You’re either:

       a) at home, three quarters of the way down a bottle of Malbec, and couldn’t help yourself,

       or

       b) in Conti’s. You meant to walk up the hill but it was raining and you didn’t have the right shoes on and besides, there it was as you walked past and you hadn’t been there in at least twenty years and, whatever, you fancied a coffee.

       Fair play to you either way; we know that if it was me I’d have opened the last envelope and read the last page, just like I did with every book I ever read. Trust me, Ruthie, don’t do that. It’ll be fun. You love this sort of thing. Go with it.

       Indulge a dead man.

       I did a Top Twelve originally, of places to be scattered, which is just silly. Obviously, it should be a Top Ten. And I realised two of the places were for me, just for me: Fulham Football Club, Craven Cottage — the place you ventured into that one time and swore you’d never visit again — and Wimbledon Common, my own little escape from London life. The others are for us, about us. Celebrate us.

       So, if you don’t want to play, don’t. But, if so, scatter me somewhere just for me. I’d be happy at Craven Cottage. Or dump me in the Queen’s Mere on the Common.

       But if you want it to be about us …

       See, only on page one and already you’ve been blackmailed from beyond the grave. How about that?

       Everyone’s supposed to remember the first time they saw the love of their life, aren’t they? Well, I’ll be honest, I can’t. In my defence, I was drunk. I’m not even sure about the place. It was at one of those student parties in a hall of residence, but I can’t for the life of me remember which one.

       You don’t even remember this as our first meeting, do you? You always say we first met watching Brideshead Revisited, so I guess I’m allowed a little latitude. Besides, we’re both right. Our memories of our first meeting are correct as our own individual memories — which is the thing with memories.

       I didn’t spot you across a crowded room. It wasn’t love at first sight, but it was certainly something. You were in a green dress that matched your eyes and you had the reddest hair I’d ever seen, tumbling over your shoulders. Every few seconds you had to sweep it out of your eyes, not like one of those girls who do it as a look-at-me gesture, but as a quite unconscious habit. I fixated on your hands as you did so. It was the first time in my life I’d noticed someone else’s hands. Your fingers were so long and beautiful. Your nails were less so, bitten right down.

       So, I was staring at you and you were preparing to throw yourself into an argument from halfway down the corridor, all red hair and indignation, and I watched from afar. I have no idea what the argument was about. I think it was politics or sexual relations or something. The rugby club, in true caveman style, were giving Sally — or Yellow Jumper, as I knew her — some stick.

       She was outnumbered and you were the cavalry. It was High Noon, cleaning up Dodge. You were Shane but, to be honest, a scared Shane. It wasn’t what you said that stayed with me; it was the brief look of terror on your face as you prepared to launch yourself into the fray. And the catch in your voice, and the way you said, ‘Fuck’. I really liked the way you said fuck. It sounded right. It wasn’t, how shall I say, common? As though every sentence was going to contain at least two tired fucks until the day you died. And it wasn’t a posh fuck either. It was a drunk fuck, with just the right mix of trepidation and anger. A good fuck.

       And then there was that exam walkout. I appear to be spotting a pattern.

       We were sitting in that room below freezing, beyond freezing, each of us thinking: this is ridiculous. We can’t be expected to do an exam in this cold.

       You stood up, moved to the door, looked around and we followed. Bloody Hell; we all followed the girl with the hair and the cute arse right out of there.

       I thought, um, what did I think? I thought ‘Yowser’.

       You once read one of your self-help books and for years were full of this line, ‘What’s the most important criterion for friendship?’ You’d make people answer and they’d say, loyalty, or kindness, or one of a hundred abstract nouns.

       You’d let them finish and, with a look of victory on your face, you’d go, ‘No … proximity.’

       There’d be silence, or a groan and someone would change the subject. And that’s about