The Road to Crosslands

Chapter 1

I must have been in some kind of delayed shock when they escorted me into the police station. I half-listened to the desk sergeant telling me I'd be held for 24 hours on suspicion while they decided what charges to bring. I wouldn't be interviewed until the duty solicitor turned up, and that might take some time. It was two a.m. on a Sunday morning and the fog was still thick in places.

After I'd removed my belt and shoelaces as instructed, a young constable showed me to a cell and gave me a cardboard beaker full of a lukewarm excuse for coffee. He was polite and treated me with respect, asking if I'd like a second blanket and advising me to get some sleep. He seemed to have no idea why I'd been arrested.

I sat on the narrow platform that served as a bed and stared at the plain white tiles on the walls. I knew I wouldn't sleep so I didn't bother trying. I wasn't sorry for what I'd done, but the thought of not seeing my two little girls grow up was crushing. I knew my only chance was to plead mitigating circumstances. I'd seen plenty of TV crime shows. Get it all straight in my mind, I decided. Go over all the details and pick out what to write in my statement. Surely any jury would understand?

***

The previous week I'd been surprised when the house phone in the hall rang late one evening. Everyone I knew had a smartphone and I'd almost forgotten it was there. My girls thought it was some sort of weird antique ornament. Then I got an even bigger surprise when I heard the voice on the other end.

'Simmo! Is that you, you bourgeois tosser?'

I hadn't heard that voice for nearly twenty years but I recognised it instantly. 'Flinty' Stone.

'Flinty, how did you find me?' I asked without too much enthusiasm.

'British Telecom online phonebook. Do you know how many J Simpsons live in Swindon? You're the sixth one I've phoned. That's a couple of pints you owe me already, or I'll settle for a spliff if you've got any.'

'I don't do that anymore Flinty. I'm married with a couple of kids now.'

'Yeah, Spud told me you'd turned into a boring git!'

'You still see Spud?'

'Nah ... tracked him down on that Facebook bollocks and got him to call me. Do you know he's been married and divorced twice and spent three months in Wormwood Scrubs last year? Silly sod got caught with a bag of Charlie.'

I did know, and I knew he still lived in Swindon. One of his exes was a friend of Lynn, my wife, so I was kept up to date with Spud's antics. I'd bumped into him in my local a few years back and we'd spent a few minutes catching up but I hadn't seen him since. He was still as barmy as he was at school, always getting into trouble. But, for all his faults, Kevin 'Spud' Murphy was just plain likeable.

'So how are you doing?' I asked, pretending to be interested.

'Me? Great! Still young, free and single. Bobbin' and weavin' as usual ... duckin' and divin' ... you know how it is.'

'You mean you're unemployed?'

'All that captive employee crap's not for me,' he told me with an air of superiority, 'I hate being tied down. That's why I'm living in Sharon.'

'In Sharon ... not with Sharon?'

Flinty roared with laughter and I held the receiver away till the racket subsided.

'Sharon's not a bird,' he explained. 'She's my motorhome. My gaff on wheels. Me and Sharon go everywhere together.'

I nearly asked why 'Sharon' and then remembered he'd had a thing for Sharon Stone when we were teenagers. He'd insisted they were related, but as long as she was only a second cousin ... no problem, anything could happen. He lived in the hope of a Stone family gathering.

'So where are you living now?' I prayed he would say the Costa del Sol or somewhere equally distant but peered out of the hall window just in case. I half expected to see a motorhome parked outside.

'Weston-super-Mare. Been doing a few jobs around Bristol, but ... got itchy feet, time to move on ... so I've got a great idea!'

I dreaded to think what type of jobs he might have been doing and winced at what he might be about to suggest.

'Go on,' I said apprehensively.

'You know what next weekend is?'

'No idea.'

'Well ... I only remembered last week. It's the 20th Anniversary of the Trainspotters Club. It was October 12th 1999 when the three of us saw Trainspotting for the first time at the Odeon.'

'Bloody hell ... is that all? Did you phone me just to tell me that?'

'Don't be a prat. Don't you remember what we agreed we'd do when we had the chance?'

'You've lost me,' I admitted. My memories of 1999 were a blur. We had all done a lot of weed after we left school. Me especially ... up until what happened that Christmas Eve. That was something that would live with me forever, and it had brought me to my senses pretty quickly. The rest of the year was a murky jumble of pub crawls and parties.

'We all swore on the Trainspotting video that we'd go to Glasgow one day and have a few pints in the Crosslands.'

I did have a vague memory of that. We'd all been crazy about the film after seeing it at the Odeon. Murphy had almost wet himself when he discovered one of the characters was also nicknamed Spud. He'd gone straight down to Blockbuster the next day and nicked the VHS cassette and we'd watched it repeatedly for weeks. One of our favourite scenes took place in the Crosslands pub.

'It'll only take us a day to drive up to Jockland in Sharon,' Flinty was saying. 'Then on Sunday morning you and Spud can get the train back and I'll stay up there and look for work.'

'You mean Spud has already agreed to go?'

'Of course! He's got nothing on next weekend. He's up for it.'

'I don't know. Like I said, I've got a wife and kids to think about and ...'

'Oh, don't be such a pussy!' he interrupted. 'Just tell the little woman you need a weekend break with the boys. She'll probably be glad to see the back of you for a couple of days.'

'No, I don't think it's a good idea,' I told him firmly. 'It's been great to hear from you Flinty, but I'm finished with all the drink and drugs. I wouldn't be able to keep up with you two.'

'This isn't about drink and drugs ... it's ... cultural. Think of it as a celebration of one of the biggest influences of our youth.'

'It's the celebration part I'm worried about.'

'Well ... think of it as a tribute to Paul,' he said. 'Paul swore on the video too you know.'

The mention of my younger brother was like a sledgehammer blow. For a moment I couldn't draw breath as I listened to Flinty prattle on about how Paul would have wanted me to go.

'Flinty ... shut up!' I managed eventually, needing a few blessed seconds of silence to gather my thoughts.

Paul had been just 14 when he died, but he was just as mad about Trainspotting as the rest of us. We had made him an Associate Junior Member of our club which had pleased him no end. He was a great kid, and Flinty was right. My brother would have wanted me to go.

So I did.