Catch a Fire.

In 1976 when Jeremy announced that he was off to the reggae disco I was surprised.

He had been my best friend at university, I thought I knew him pretty well and with graduation we had both moved northwards into Scotland where our friendship continued – although separated by the distance of Aberdeen and Edinburgh.

I’m not sure either of us had used the word in conversation before, maybe it hadn’t been invented before that night as we walked across the cobbles towards his flat.

My girlfriend had just moved from Aberdeen to Edinburgh, “I want more than the northeast can provide,” and she was sharing part of my friend’s flat.

Things at this stage were still clear.

Murkiness came later.

A year later, after my exodus to Reading, I found myself alone with so much things to say, and wondering how to say them.

Jeremy visited and added his artistic flair to an event I had organised; we were still close, inseparable and friends for life.

Nothing could come between us.

Things were still clear.

My girlfriend moved to London, Jeremy stayed to finish his studies in Edinburgh.

Then I moved into London, looking for kaya, wondering how to have it.

There were questions, travel, a marriage – is this love?

Jeremy moved south; we west; a crisis and then she is gone.

Back to London, I think we survived, but things were no longer clear but very murky, especially after the ambush in the night.

Some confusion certainly, more than was necessary with the wisdom of hindsight.

There followed the uprising and the three of us moved separate ways, some very far leaving the murk to settle around the places we abandoned.

There was no final confrontation. Much was played out in silence.

Bob Marley died thirty years ago this week – that was about the last time I saw Jeremy.

We spoke once on the phone, a few years back.

But there was no redemption song.