Prologue

I’m wearing my heavy, dark Crombie. It’s drizzling pitifully out here and droplets are clinging to the wool and sliding off the pocket-watch in my hand. Other droplets are clinging to my eyelashes.

I’m nineteen years old, second year of uni; you’re twenty. We’re both kids, but dear God, I’ve aged today. After your funeral this morning, I somehow found myself in this clearing, in this wood, where I had my first joint with you - five years ago today. I’ve come back because I want to be young again; I remember us being young together.

I can remember it all. I can see how easy it was.

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