Rich Barnett’s phone had been going nuts for half an hour before he had any hope of taking a break and checking it. Friday afternoon in the kitchens; the lunchtime crowd now thinned out and the pub finally quiet at least for another couple of hours. Time enough to take a twenty-minute break with a coffee, rest his aching feet, and read the latest plans for the reunion lunch.

Needing fresh air, Rich headed out to the rear of the pub. It opened to a wide yard never seen by the kind of people who could afford to eat here. Let them have their steaks cooked to perfection; give them their tinkling piano music from discreet speakers; be ready to pour another glass of eye-wateringly expensive red. They had that. Rich had his sore feet and the pleasant cool of the yard.

He sat on one of the barrels, stretched until his spine cracked, and checked his phone. As he suspected, a glut of messages had come through. The reunion lunch was the following weekend; he’d lost track of how many times it had been rearranged. A few of the group testing positive for Covid a couple of months ago; issues with their kids; travel; work commitments. If he needed a reminder they were all in their forties now and not in their twenties or thirties, it was right there.

Listening to the birdsong in the trees around the square, Rich sipped his coffee and scanned the messages. They came in waves, it seemed. The initial one from Leo six months ago was followed by dozens of affirmative replies, thumbs up, and gifs. Then little for a few weeks before Leo named a couple of potential venues and some of the crowed dropped out due to prior arrangements; others suggesting different pubs with larger beer gardens; Nigel with the idea they wait until the weather picked up. Two months later and Leo half-jokingly putting his foot down with a named venue and a date. A few days’ worth of more of the group having to give it a miss until it was down to around ten of them. Old friends. People who’d shared years and decades and memories falling back into their time at school, then several at different universities before moving across the country for work and partners. Miles didn’t matter. Time was what counted, and they definitely had that.

The most recent flurry of messages came in over the last couple of days. Everyone looking forward to it; Nigel telling Leo he could get the beers in now that he was a bigshot actor; Leo replying to say he would have his people call Nigel’s people to tell him to piss off; Nigel calling Leo an old queen; Leo coming back with a yass queen gif.

Rich laughed and spotted a message from Kate. She’d sent it two hours ago.

Everyone ok if I invite Dave Launer?

The replies were speedy and positive.

Sure. Be good to see the old git.

Wow. Not seen him in years.

Yeah, deffo.

Tell him he HAS to be there.

Rich said the name aloud. Dave Launer. Frowning, he drank his coffee.

More than twenty-five years since they all left school. Thirty-plus years as friends for a few of them. He’d been at primary school with Sam and Nigel. He and Kate had gone to the same university, and their friendship had survived a year-long relationship. Everyone was married or divorced or with someone. They had children and careers and lives that intersected. Rich was almost certain Dave Launer was not part of those lives. Nor had he ever been.

Rich set his coffee down and messaged Sam outside of the main chat.

Hey hey. Dave Launer. Is this someone I’ve forgotten?

The two blue ticks appeared. He waited as she replied.

You’re getting old. He was at school with us. X

Rich chewed his lip. He had a decent memory—or thought he did. Plenty of names and faces had faded into the dark. The past didn’t always stick around, which could only be a blessing. He was almost certain he’d never heard of Dave Launer.

Rich typed another message.

Really? Doesn’t ring a bell at all. Did he move away?

The blue ticks appeared, but Sam didn’t reply. Three o’clock on a Friday afternoon. She’d be at work. Even so, he was oddly eager to place the face with Dave Launer before he returned to the kitchens and the prep for the early evening crowd.

Sam’s reply arrived a minute later.

Don’t think so. Been a long time, though. Sure he’s on Facebook. You’ll remember him. X

“If you say so,” Rich muttered. Aware he had little time left of his break, he opened Facebook, ignored his few notifications, and searched for Dave Launer. The name brought up several accounts. The first couple were guys in the States; the third had an ALL LIVES MATTER banner as their profile photo. Dave ignored that one and hit the fourth.

A man anywhere between early thirties and mid-forties; hair thinning but healthy enough; smiling and handsome in an average way. The shot was in a garden on a sunny day. Dave held a bottle of beer to the camera in a toast. Just another guy enjoying his life in the sunshine.

Rich had no idea who he was.

Dave’s most recent post was from two months ago. He needed a week off, apparently. The gif with the post was of a big cat falling asleep while standing.

Rich returned to the group messages. Not one of them asking who the hell Dave Launer was, which was exactly what Rich wanted to say.

You’ll remember him.

Rich wanted to believe Sam, but something low down in his head, something that didn’t blink or make a move as it read Dave’s name and peered back into the shared past didn’t think that was possible.

Because he’d never heard of Dave Launer.

*     *     *
“Evening, Sid.”

Rich tossed his keys to the little table beside the front door of his flat. Sid rubbed his face around Rich’s ankles, the cat nimble enough to avoid being stepped on as Rich shut the door and took off his light jacket.

“Miss me, cat?”

Sid trotted into the kitchen.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Rich fed Sid, reheated a vegetable curry, poured a glass of red, and sat at the kitchen table. The early summer light made the table shine; the view from the fifth-floor window offered him dozens of sloping roofs and the pleasant tinge to the reddening sky as sunset approached.

His phone buzzed. Another message about the lunch. The last two of his mates replying to Kate. Everyone bar him happy for her to invite Dave; the old gang eager to see him. Kate replied. She’d message Dave later.

Rich sent another separate message to Sam, telling her he still had no clue who Dave Launer was and adding that maybe he was going senile. Winky emoji. Message sent.

“I’m not senile, cat.”

Sid glanced up from drinking at his bowl, then returned to it.

Right. Not senile, but living alone with a cat. No wife or girlfriend. Not close on the former; a long while since the latter. Forty-four in October; a comfortable job and life; his own flat and good friends. And no reason at all for him to be bothered about not remembering a guy he probably hadn’t seen in thirty years.

Sam’s message remained on a solitary tick. Rich returned to Dave’s Facebook page and blinked a few times.

Dave’s profile image was now a photo from long before. The colours washed-out; no filters applied, and the framing untouched. It was a wide shot of their secondary school, taken on the far side of the road on a bright day. Even the sunshine didn’t do much for the light. The yellow brickwork was an off-brown; the shadows were thick, and the lush trees at the front of the building were squat instead of tall as Rich remembered them. There were no kids or teachers in view. The photo had presumably been taken during school holidays. Maybe the good and long days of late July and August.

At the edges of the image, the curving road was visible. The shot cut off where the road now met a development of bungalows. Back in their schooldays, that turn of the road followed tall bramble hedges and the field right to its perimeter. Rich maximised the shot, frowning.

It was impossible to say for sure, but he thought there was an edge of a building on the far left. A small building.

“What?”

That didn’t work. The photo was obviously old. Nobody took a shot like this now and left it untouched by filter or cropping. He was looking at a relic from the late eighties or early nineties at the most recent. So why the hell were the houses not built until five or six years later in shot? And why were there no comments on the photos? Not a single Like?

Nothing about it on Dave’s profile other than the image itself?

“He could have just posted it without putting it on his profile,” Rich told Sid.

That last idea was definitely feasible, but it didn’t explain the lack of comments or why the hell the thirty-five-year-old photo had to be have been taken recently.

Rich’s phone beeped. Sam had read and replied to his message.

Bath time with the kids. Don’t worry about it. Been a long time since school. I’m sure you’ll recognise him next Saturday. X

She wasn’t free to talk. Rich told her she was probably right and said he was looking forward to the lunch before he returned to Dave’s profile. His friends list.

All of them were there. Everyone who’d replied to Kate to say it would be good to see Dave. Rich scrolled up and down, unsure for a few moments why the list stuck on his eye. He sipped the wine. Up and down, back and forth. Dave’s friend list and the faint disquiet growing to confused realisation.

Oddly cold even with the pleasant sunset in the warmth of his flat, he compared the list of Dave’s recent friends to the replies to Kate’s message.

There it was.

They were in the same order. The most recent reply was Dave’s newest friend and so on down the list. A list without Rich because he hadn’t said anything to Kate.

No further message from Kate to say she’d invited Dave; nothing on Dave’s profile about the lunch or his new photo. A new photo that wasn’t new. Couldn’t be.

Had to be if the altered land was there in the image.

Rich closed the app and the messages. On the sofa with a fresh bottle of wine and his cat, he pretended he wasn’t thinking about any of it. He managed another hour until Kate sent a new message.

Dave’s coming. Said he’s really looking forward to seeing everyone again.

*     *     *
Rich worked the weekend, his hours lost to the food, kitchens, and aching muscles at the end of his shifts. It was late by the time he arrived home Saturday night to an annoyed cat, a couple of bottles of ice-cold lager and more messages from his friends all looking forward to the lunch in a week. Sunday was similar. Monday and Tuesday, he forced himself to not check his phone. Wednesday and a day off, and the need to return to the messages was a needling pain in his stomach. He took his time cleaning the flat and having a long shower, then walked to a riverside pub. In the beer garden, phone and book on the little table, he listened to the hum of a couple of bees along with the splash of swans on the water, and held his phone.

It doesn’t matter.

Yes, it did. His friends were his. His past was his. He knew both. He owned both, and to have them . . . changed in such an odd way made that unblinking thing low down in his head keep watch for strangers wearing the face of a friend.

He opened Sam’s most recent message, hesitated with a reply and she sent one at the same time.

You still not sure who Dave is? X

“Not a clue, love,” he muttered and glanced around to see if he’d been overheard. The nearest drinkers were a couple eating several tables away.

Rich sent a reply, telling Sam he couldn’t remember, but she was right. School was a long time ago.

Sam’s reply arrived.

He was on that trip we had to Germany in year 9. When Leo stuck his head out of the coach window and didn’t realise there was a road sign. Dave pulled him back in. X

Rich paused with his pint halfway to his mouth. He remembered that trip. Remembered Leo pissing about at the back of the coach while Mr Moore had been way down at the front with the driver. Leo managing to get his head through the small opening, mouth wide open like he was a dog enjoying the wind, eyes shut against the blasting force of the air.

Gary Yates yelling watch out and Rich seeing the sign at the side of the road.

He’d yanked Leo back in seconds before Leo would have collided with the sign. He had. Not Dave fucking Launer.

Rich drank half his pint in one go, letting the chill of the beer take his focus from Sam’s nonsense message. He put his glass down and a second message arrived.

He and Alice Sullivan went out for a while. Felt like ages at the time, but was probably just six months. His dad was a postman. He once nicked a packet of fags from Mr Coombes’s desk. He lived near Welland Road. X

“What the hell?”

Rich brought his finger to his phone, utterly unsure what to make of the seemingly random memories. This wasn’t Sam recalling a couple of key details about someone she hadn’t seen since they were eighteen. These were facts long-since forgotten and brought back to life as if they’d never slid away. And at least one of them was plain wrong.

As he moved to close her message, another came through.

Remember that party Dan Harrison had for his seventeenth? Dave and Sarah Wilcox had it off in Dan’s parents’ bed hahaha.

Sarah Wilcox. Now there was a name Rich did remember. The girl he’d never dared tell how he felt; the girl who’d doubtless known he liked her. A memory coloured grey of a now meaningless time; childish attraction of lust or even simple teenage love that meant nothing so many years later. And this Dave had slept with her that night of Dan Harrison’s party.

The sun remained high and strong; the bees were still in the bushes. Dave was no longer warm. He rubbed his hand, cold from the lager, on his leg and flexed his fingers, chilled as if he sat outside in November, not early June.

On Facebook again, he brought up Sam’s account and searched through her photos. As with most people, she’d uploaded a lot in the days when everyone first joined, much less so now. He swiped until he found folders she’d added fifteen years earlier, then scrolled to a collection titled OLDIES.

There were at least a hundred shots; photos of people he hadn’t thought of since childhood; photos from Sam’s own childhood; her parents and siblings; pets in gardens on summer days with the light as washed out as it had been in Dave’s profile photo. In a large cluster of at least fifty images, random images of their school days. Photos of parties when they’d drunk way too much cheap lager; Nigel passed out on a living room chair while Jim was frozen in the instant of pouring beer over his crotch; school trips; teachers who would now be long retired if they were still alive. Photos of individuals or group shots where they were crowded around each other, grinning and all utterly convinced they’d be friends for their rest of the lives.

Rich opened another tab to bring up Dave’s profile and double checked his image against Sam’s photos. Although the teenage boy Dave would have been when they were supposedly at school would be in his grave now, it was clear none of the kids were him. Rich studied more of the faces. Names returned. Kids who’d left school or moved away or just ended up living a life that no longer coincided with his. Enough remained now for him to know who his friends were. The shared years were his and nobody could take that away.

You are reading way too much into this. It’s some guy you haven’t seen in a thousand years. What’s the big deal?

Just the oddity of Dave’s friends’ list increasing and matching the order of replies from the group saying it would be good to see him. Just Sam’s completely random memories that had no real connection other than their subject. Just Dave yanking Nigel from the coach window when Rich knew he himself had done that, perhaps saving his mate’s life.

No big deal at all.

Rich returned to Dave’s profile and held his finger over the icon to send a friend request. It made sense to do so. Every one of the others who’d be there on Saturday was friends with the guy. Presumably like Sam, they knew where Dave had lived and that he’d shagged Sarah at Dan’s party and saved Nigel’s life.

Abruptly furious, Rich slammed his phone and downed the rest of his pint. The couple nearby were deliberately not looking his way. Face hot and flushed, Rich stuffed his phone into his pocket and left the beer garden.

*     *     *
“Remember him yet?” Sam muttered.

She’d sat beside Rich a few moments before. The seat around the large circular table gave her a clear view of the sloping grass outside along with the play area. Her three children out there with Leo’s two, Jim’s three, and dozens of others while their parents ate and drank. The windows were wide; the conversation from the assorted tables was loud but friendly. It was a sound Rich knew from work when people enjoyed their meals and their drink and each other. Laughter and sunlight on the glass; the aroma of the beers and the fruity wine mingling with the burgers and the steaks.

“Not even a little bit,” he replied and sipped his pint.

“You really are getting old, love.” Sam punched his arm lightly. “Early dementia. I’m telling you.”

“Cheeky bitch.”

“You’ll be smelling of wee next.”

“Rude.”

She laughed and drank her wine. The remnants of the group’s food had been cleared; coffees and more beer ordered. Nobody seemed in a hurry to leave, and he was more grateful for that than he wanted to admit. It had been a long time since they’d done this. Plenty of smaller get-togethers either with a couple of them having a drink or driving to the coast for a day out, but this with his oldest friends and all the lights in the dark around him . . . it had been too long.

“He was with us for years,” Sam said and saw his face. “Seriously? You don’t remember him?”

Rich looked straight ahead to the windows. Dave out there with Nigel, Jim, and Andy. The men watched the kids play; they held their pints and Andy laughed deeply at something Dave said. Jim shoved him, also laughing.

“Like you said, it’s been a while. Maybe I’m just not remembering everyone,” Rich replied.

“You should talk to him. See what comes back.”

Dave was there when Rich entered with Jim and Leo, standing at the bar with a couple of the others, and there’d been several moments of handshakes, hugs, back-slapping, and good to see you before everyone else arrived in a flurry of embraces and laughter. Rich joined in with all of it, meaning every moment of it until Dave’s hand enveloped his and Dave said it had been way too long and how are you and fancy a pint and . . .

And hours of good food and drink and company while the afternoon flowed in its easy currents and the sun never stopped shining. The children taking their time to eat, pausing to colour in maps and pictures of animals before they dashed out to the recently cut grass and the playground. The conversation and jokes non-stop; the memories and stories of jobs and people who weren’t there making Rich laugh even as he was constantly aware of Dave on the other side of the table between Kate and Leo. However many pints later and the crowds beginning to thin now that it was pushing five o’clock. Every moment of it, every sliver of the day there in Rich’s hands with the weight of the sunshine had been exactly as he’d known it would. As he needed it to be, because these people were his past, present, and future, and he would be lost in the dark without them.

You may have had one too many.

Possibly, but who cared? He had the weekend off, and he had everything he needed right here.

Rich brought his pint to his lips. Outside, Dave did the same. Both men with the drinks held aloft, the amber liquid tilted, rising. Mouth around his glass, Dave smiled and raised his index finger in a friendly salute.

Rich managed to copy the gesture, drank deeply, and turned to Leo when he returned to the table. Conversation was immediate and smooth along with more laughter and the smell of fresh coffee, then the querulous cry from one of the kids, which was echoed by two more, then a third.

Rich blinked and saw the time on his watch. Forty minutes had passed seemingly in the time it took him and Leo to plan a catch-up next month depending on the kids you know how it is Rich but yeah it would definitely be good to do a few pints I’ll let you know okay.

“I think they’re playing my song.” Jim scooped his child from the table. His wife was on her way from the toilet. Her movement was quick, but Rich still saw her pointedly tap her watch.

The others were also standing, gathering their children, shoving their belongings into bags, hugging while the staff lurked, ready to clear the tables.

“Time to go,” Rich muttered to nobody and stood. He was quite drunk, he realised.

More hugs and handshakes; a couple of group photos and promises to share them later; children held close, and the staff moving in to the tables and the glasses and cups with their dregs. Leo held Rich in a tight embrace, called him a wanker, and headed to the doors. Rich manhandled Nigel, kissed a bristly cheek, then did the same to Kate and Sam. He saw Dave near the exit, talking to Jim’s wife. She was laughing. Dave was probably telling her the story of the coach trip and Nige sticking his head out of the window.

“Fucking Dave,” Rich whispered.

He paid his share of the bill, called a goodbye to Leo and gave Dave a quick wave, which Dave returned. They were gone. The pub was painfully quiet. Even the clink of the glasses collected from their table was muted. This was also a time he knew. A no-man’s land for a pub like this between lunch and dinner. Give it two hours and the place would be rammed. He could stay right here, set up roots to the wooden floor and drink while the evening diners enjoyed their food and each other.

“Balls.”

He crossed to the doors and Dave was there, and that made no sense because he’d seen Dave step outside. He’d seen the doors close behind him.

“You okay?” Dave asked.

His voice was soft and light. It was like watching TV with the sound down slightly too low.

“Never better,” Rich replied and grinned.

“Had a few?”

“Had a few more.” Rich laughed as if it was a great joke. “Good food, good drink, good company.”

“The best.” Dave nodded and held Rich’s eyes. “You don’t know me, do you?”

“Of course I do. We were at school. You nobbed Sarah Wilcox at Dan Harrison’s seventeenth. You saved Nige when he put his head out of the coach window. Your dad was a postman.”

Rich grinned again. The flow of blood in his ears was a rushing river, and it was heat and he was carried along in that heat.

Dave shook his head. “No. Not me.”

“What?”

Rich wanted to keep the grin on his face; it felt oily.

“I wasn’t there. You were. They all were. Not me.”

This was bollocks. In seconds, he’d gone from the happy normality of his mates and what was probably too much to drink to this. Whatever it was. Rich pushed past Dave and shoved the doors. The late afternoon, still warm and dazzling, rushed at his face. He blinked several times. A few of his friends were at their cars with their kids. Their shadows fell on the tarmac as they had back on that last day of school when Mrs Patel took the group photo and he’d been down there on the left. Until Dave added it to his profile.

Looking forward to seeing this lot tomorrow. Been a long time.

“Who are you?” Rich whispered. “How come they know you?”

Dave sighed. “They know me now. They’re my friends. Now.”

Rich swallowed repeatedly. His throat was too small, and he couldn’t get enough oxygen. The summer light was oven-hot.

“I’m sorry,” Dave said. “It’s who I am. I can’t be ...” He shivered and wiped his suddenly damp eyes. “I can’t be lonely, anymore. Don’t worry. I’ll be good to them.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Rich whispered.

Dave sighed again and in that weak breath, Rich smelled and heard and saw the past of snowfall, summer and dreary afternoons stuck in October days at school when the light left the sky too quickly, all of it at once. Dave wasn’t there because Dave was outside. He belonged to the dead days that had never been anything but. No shared nights or laughter for him; only the silence of an empty place without a history to comfort him in the night or the harder days of adult life. In the linked moments Rich shared with Sam, Leo, and all the others, Dave was outside every second of it, peering inside from out, seeking a moment to break through and take his place in the snowfall, the sunshine, and the long afternoons. His way in, wherever it was, had brought him into their lives now and their memories. A past rewritten for him to take his place; a present edited to give him the months and years when the children would grow, make their own friendships and lives that in turn would last into a future when Rich and his friends were memories. A present where Rich no longer belonged because they were Dave’s friends now.

“Dave,” Leo called across the car park. He was at the driver’s side. Most of the others were pulling out; a few hands stuck through the windows to wave; Jim tapping his horn in farewell. Sam was finishing putting stuff in the boot.

Leo waved at them.

“Still want that lift?” Leo called to Dave.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Dave waved. He turned back to Rich for the last time.

“You had your days with them. Don’t feel too bad. But they’re my days now.”

His face shifted. Another Dave peered out of the man’s eyes. Something beyond ancient. A wizened, stunted creature worn down by centuries upon centuries of a solitary existence; countless lifetimes spent walking in freezing nights and burning days, never quite close enough to the human world to touch it. Until now.

Rich gagged, tasting every drop of each beer, each mouthful of his meal. Without taking a step, Dave was crossing the car park, waving again at Leo who slid into his car. Rich grunted and descended the steps to level ground. Even though it had only been seconds, Dave was already at Leo’s car, now already inside, now the car was already at the exit.

“Leo,” Rich whispered.

All bar Sam were gone, and she was in the motion of entering her car, speaking to the kids in the back. Rich found all the air in the world and swallowed it. It emerged in a hoarse cry, not a shout. He heard his desperation and his grief. Tears in that grief because this was like dying.

“Sam.”

She looked back, shielding her eyes from the sun, and saw him. One hand came up. There was no smile or answer. No link across the car park. Or the decades.

Sam waved, the gesture polite and perfunctory. Then she was gone.

Rich gripped the wooden railing and held it to keep on his feet. Trying to speak, he managed to croak. Birds sang from the trees beyond the play area. Behind, someone passed an open window in the pub, laughing freely. The laughter of friendship and time.

Rich tried to echo it. Then tried again.

He thought if he stood there long enough and the afternoon stayed with him, he might be able to remember how to do so.