Just the snow...

I stopped at the Hartshead Moor services to dial into a telephone conference on my way back from Scarborough last night. It was snowing heavily as I parked up in front of a stand of snow covered wintry trees. It was still snowing a half hour later when I took this picture by the light of my headlight beams. It was cold outside the car as I photographed the trees and I was relieved to get back into the warmth of the car. As I sat there preparing to drive away he came to me again, my friend Ju-Ju. He often pops into my thoughts - but last night he was very strong. Perhaps it was the snow, or the trees, or the headlights, or the sound of the engine, or the cold, maybe the heat inside the car - but for a second or two he popped into my mind as I put the car in gear to drive away. I thought about him now and then as I drove along the long, snowy M62 back to Manchester and then, last night, he came to me again in that dream. Only this time it was different.

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It is warm in his car, far too warm. The heating is right up - Norway can be a cold country. He’s sitting in the driver’s seat looking out of the windscreen. He’s older, thinner, but he hasn’t changed that much – at least outwardly – he’s still Julian. The car is surrounded by tall trees. It’s getting dark. He speaks first.

“Oh you’re here again are you? Sorry I can’t offer you any vodka, I’ve drunk it all as always. How’ve you been - okay?”

“Yeah fine thanks…you?” He shoots me a strange look, a kind of half-smile. His face looks crooked, ironic. That’s such a stupid response from me. He’s in a car full of exhaust fumes and he’s drunk the best part of a bottle of vodka – how would he be? Why do I always ask him how he is? I know what he’s going to say next.

He says it. “Remember playing darts at the Bells? How did we get away with it? And in our lunch break. We were only fifteen. Three-o-one, double to finish and half a pint of bitter - remember? Remember old Charlie?”

“Yes Ju-Ju, I remember. Who usually won?” I always ask that.
“You”
“I thought you usually won.”
“No, it was definitely you. Want some music?”
“Why not – what’ve you got?”
“You’ll know it when you hear it.”

He puts a CD in the player, the sound of synthesisers rise above the purr of the engine and The Human Menagerie kicks in. I look around the car. Where’s the hosepipe? Oh there it is taped through the rear window He leaves nothing to chance. I look around the floor for pill bottles, there are a couple tonight usually it’s only one.

He’s not singing, just hums along, tuneless as always. Usually he sings along – Mr Soft, sometimes Judy Teen, depends on the album, but not tonight. We sit in the silence of friends watching the pine cone laden branches wave in the breeze and listening to Steve Harley’s melodious warbling. He was such a big Cockney Rebel fan. It’s getting darker. We must be very deep in the trees. It’s totally silent. No traffic noise, no planes – just dark. Heavy silence and the comforting sound of the breeze. Nobody is going to find us here. He grips the steering wheel hard, his knuckles turn white with the effort.

“Why do you come?” Always that and I always give the same answer.

“I don’t have a choice. The film starts running in my head and I’m here again.”

“I always was your entertainment.” Always.

“You were my friend.”
“And your entertainment. Remember that time on the hill?”
“It was only a joke, we were young. You didn’t mind.”
“No, I didn’t mind. I never minded did I? Heard anything from Sash?”
“Only Facebook. We message about you sometimes.”
"I'm surprised you remember me".

We remember him.

The film continues to run. We listen some more to Cockney Rebel like we used to when he wasn’t dead - and like I’ve listened so many times since - in the film in my head - but never in the real.

“Ju-Ju I need to ask you something.” Here it comes - the big question in a small word. It is such a hard word - so small, but so hard. I let it sigh out of my mouth. I'm not looking at him as I say it.

“Why?” I look towards him. His chin is on his chest. It always is when I look towards him after asking the question. He’s asleep this time. I can hear him breathing. Sometimes, the really bad times, I can’t and then his skin is titanium white - as white as boiled bone. I'm relieved. I prefer it when I can hear him breathing - not that it’s ever changed anything. ‘Death Trip’ is playing softly on the CD player.

"NOOOOOOOOOO! I'm Not Letting You Do This Any More!"
And then I grab him, open the door, drag him from the car and slap his face until he wakes up coughing and spluttering. This has never happened before… I’ve saved him!
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Last night at 4.32 am, around the time he died all those years ago, I woke up and realised it was just another version of the dream. Nothing had changed at all.

Well, not quite nothing. I’d saved him if not in life then in my dream. Maybe I won’t dream him again? Don’t know how I feel about that.

It was probably the snow.