By two in the morning we'd passed the junction for Kendal in the Lake District and the heavens had opened. It was just as well we planned to stop at the next motorway services because Sharon's windscreen wipers were pathetic. The screech of metal on glass confirmed a distinct lack of maintenance. Flinty squinted through a streaky two-inch wide arc where a smidgeon of rubber still survived.

I couldn't see a thing through the windscreen on the passenger side so I breathed a sigh of relief when Flinty shouted, 'Here we are!' and pulled abruptly to the left. Sharon swayed like an elephant on roller skates as he made a last-second dive into the services.

'Nearly missed it!' he complained. 'They should make their bloody signs bigger. You'd need eyes like a hawk to see those piddling little things!'

'Some new wiper blades might help,' I suggested sarcastically. 'Or are they for emergency use only as well?

'Bloody cheek! ... They just need a bit of adjustment, that's all. I'll see to it as soon as I have the time.'

Flinty steered Sharon past the fuel pumps and towards the welcoming lights of the 24-hour cafeteria. Then he headed for the far side of the extensive parking area and stopped between a couple of massive HGVs next to the perimeter fence.

'Should be nice and peaceful here,' he said, 'well away from the rabble.'

***

We clambered into the dinette and Flinty retrieved the bottle of Johnny Walker and the six-pack from the tiny fridge. He put them on the table and started foraging in the cupboards for teacups. The glasses we'd used earlier were in the sink with an assorted collection of unwashed crockery.

'I've been dying for one of these,' Spud said, ripping apart the six-pack. 'I've got a thirst you could photograph.'

He popped one open and took a long gulp.

'Not very cold,' he grumbled. 'Does that fridge work?'

'Of course it does ... when I can plug in the extension lead. That reminds me, we can't use these lights for long, they'll flatten the battery.'

Flinty did another bit of scavenging and came up with a couple of candles and an old oil lamp. Once they were lit, he switched off the electric lights and we sat in semi-darkness, huddled around the lamp on the table. It was the only source of heat now Sharon's engine wasn't running and it was getting cold. The rain was hammering down on Sharon's flimsy roof.

I poured myself a large whisky and Flinty started rolling himself a joint.

'Right then, Simmo,' he said. 'It's your turn ... what happened to you after that Christmas?'

***

That Christmas. The Christmas I would never forget for all the wrong reasons. The turkey didn't get roasted and the presents never got opened. For all I know they're still in my mum's house, gathering dust in a wardrobe. What I remember most about it were the recriminations. My dad shouldn't have said it was okay for him to go sledging. If only I hadn't stayed to watch the end of that stupid film. If I'd set off for the Royal Oak when I should have. If my dad had got off his arse and gone out to look for Paul when mum was worried. If we'd listened to her we might have found Paul still alive. I didn't say any of that to Flinty and Spud of course. I tried to keep it light.

I reminded them that I'd been helping out at a local garage owned by Brian, a friend of my dad. I'd left school with few qualifications and even less ambition. The only thing I was interested in was cars, so I was quite happy at the garage. I wasn't officially a trainee mechanic, they already had one of those and he was getting day release to go to a technical college. I just washed cars, made the tea and held spanners when asked. But I got the chance to tinker with old bangers and learned to drive on the forecourt. That's why I was able to pass my test a few weeks after my 17th birthday and buy the Ratmobile. I had worked for Brian for nearly three years by that Christmas and was quite content.

But afterwards, everything went to hell in a handcart. My parents argued constantly. My mum blamed both my dad and me for Paul's death. I blamed myself for Paul's death.

At the beginning of January, a plainclothes policeman came to the house, asked us to sit down, and explained what they had found out. The pathologist's report had concluded that Paul had been hit by a car. He had been thrown against a wall and knocked unconscious. They had found a bruise on the back of his head. The impact from the car had broken his leg but his injuries weren't life-threatening. He had died from hypothermia. If the driver had stopped to help Paul, he would have recovered in no time.

The policeman told us his body could now be released and we could organise the funeral.

'Have you found the driver?' my dad croaked, tears rolling down his cheeks.

'We managed to recover some evidence from the scene and we're pursuing a line of inquiry,' was the stock answer. 'But I'm not allowed to divulge any details of an ongoing investigation.'

***

I realised I'd stopped talking and had been lost in my own thoughts when Flinty kicked me under the table.

'Wake up, you dork! You were saying you were lounging about at Brian's garage, what happened next?'

'Yeah, well ... in March of 2000 my parents split up. I think my mum had some sort of nervous breakdown and dad couldn't handle it so he left and found a place of his own. In the end, I couldn't stand it either, so I went to the army recruitment office in Swindon and signed up for the Royal Engineers.'

Flinty nodded sagely.

'Always thought you were cut out to be a squaddie. I was surprised you didn't join up straight from school.'

He wasn't far wrong. I had almost done just that. The three of us had been in the school army cadet force and I had taken to it like a duck to water. But my parents advised me to wait a year before joining up. They thought 16 was too young to make such a big decision and by the time a year had passed, I'd become hooked on the nightlife of Swindon, and the company of my best mates.

'So,' I continued, 'to cut a long story short, I trained as a vehicle maintenance technician, did a couple of tours in Afghanistan and then got out after four years. I went back to Swindon and found a job with Network Rail as a mechanic. Then I got promoted to a maintenance planner. I met and married Lynn, bought a house and had a couple of kids. And that's where I am today.'

'I told you on the phone he was a wheeltapper,' Spud remarked. 'He's the wally who goes down the train with a hammer testing the wheels.'

'Well, at least that sounds more interesting than maintenance planner,' Flinty said. 'That sounds like the most boring job on the planet. You must have done something exciting in the last twenty years. Did you shoot anybody in Afghanistan?'

'Of course not,' I told him. 'I was in the motor pool, servicing tanks and stuff.'

'What a waste,' Flinty said sadly, pouring me another large whisky.

'Get that down you, it'll help blot out the monotony.'

***

We finished our drinks and decided to get some sleep. Spud and I stood at the rear of Sharon and watched Flinty rearrange her interior. The dinette table dropped between the seats to make a double bed. The duvets reappeared, and the pigeon loft above the cab reinvented itself as a single sleeping compartment.

We flipped a coin to decide who would get to sleep alone and I won. The other two could cuddle up together on the double bed. It must have been nearly four in the morning by the time we'd finally settled down to sleep, all still fully clothed. The rain was coming down in buckets and the noise of it was strangely comforting as I pulled the slightly damp quilt up to my chin. The funny thing was, I realized that I was actually enjoying myself. It felt good to be with Spud and Flinty again. I was relishing all the banter, and maybe reliving Paul's death might help exorcise the guilt that still lingered in my head.

I was drifting off to sleep when I heard Flinty's voice below me.

'Simmo? Simmo? Are you awake?'

The two of them were chuckling like a pair of overgrown schoolboys.

'I am now.'

'Simmo, we can't sleep ... will you sing us the spider song?'