ISUPPOSE it's, like, seeing the place so empty that gets me. The sofa where I slept so many nights after Sorcha focked me out . . .

there's an empty space where it used to be. The table on which I boned the two O'Prey twins on consecutive nights when Lauren was away on one of her ugly mate's hen nights . . . gone. Even the full-size Dorth Vader I bought for him as a wedding present has been shipped, along with everything else.

I suppose he's not going to change his mind at this late stage.

"Time's your flight?" I go.

He's like, "Seven in the morning. Lauren's old man's coming for us at four."

I just sort of, like, nod. Too soon. It's all too soon.

"I remember the first day I ever met you, " he goes, and I'm just there hoping that this doesn't get too gay. He hands me a beer. I lean against the wall, roysh, and drink it from the can.

"It was our first day in Castlerock, " he goes. "We were, what, 12? We were in the tuck shop queue. You wanted four packets of Meanies and a can of Coke . . . and you tried to pay by cheque."

I laugh. I'm like, "The old dear had no cash that morning . . . the stupid focking wench, " and Christian just shakes his head.

"It was seriously impressive, " he goes.

I thought he was going to mention the time I was getting the shit kicked out of me by these sixth years . . . tossers, the three of them . . . who storted basically bullying me, if you can believe that, when the word got around that I used to live in Sallynoggin, even though it was actually Glenageary.

Anyway, roysh, they had me in one of the science labs and they were basically knocking seven shades out of me when all of a sudden the door opens and it's, like, Christian, who I remember I'd never even had a conversation with at this point. Conor Carlin, who was the biggest prick out of the three of them, goes, "Fock off, you little squirt. Police business, " but Christian turns around, locks the door, throws his jacket . . . as in his good Henri Lloyd . . . on the ground, puts his fists up like a focking boxer and goes, "Okay, let's go."

I was thinking, who is this focking lunatic? But we fought them anyway . . . the two of us.

They squashed us into the focking ground, roysh, but Carlin walked away with a split lip and a headache for the afternoon and it was the last time they ever laid a finger on me.

I go, "A cheque, " and I shake my head. "What was I thinking?"

I look around the kitchen.

They're actually nice gaffs, these.

I still think they should rent it out, roysh, but Lauren wants to sell. A clean break, she says.

They've left it in JP's old man's hands.

"What about that time we played Michael's?" he goes. "You remember Gerry Thornley said that all Castlerock had going for them was their pack? You must have ran, like, 70 yords for that try. Then you stood in front of the press box, pulled up your shirt and showed them your abs. The crowd went ballistic."

I nod my head and go, "I was doing a serious amount of work in the gym that year."

When he mentioned the Michael's match, I thought he was actually talking about my second try, roysh, when he had the ball and he waited and waited and waited, before playing me in, even though it meant him taking the most unbelievable hit I've ever seen a player take. The dude had to be, like, stretchered off.

I'm like, "My pecs were pretty focking impressive as well that year, if I remember rightly, " and he agrees with me.

I'm like, "So, uh, where's Lauren?" and he goes, "Oh, she's just saying goodbye to a few friends."

The cast of the focking Rocky Horror Show.

I'm there, "I suppose I, uh, better hit the road before she gets back, " and he's like, "Why?

She'd want to say goodbye to you, " and I'm there, "Look, I'd love to but, hey, I know how she feels. About me and shit?"

He just shakes his head and goes, "Lauren doesn't hold grudges, Ross."

She doesn't hold grudges. Just like this man. You know, it's, I don't know how many years since me and his old dear, well, I don't need to say it . . . basically, got it on . . . and once he forgave me, he never, ever mentioned it again.

He forgot about it.

I wish I could say the same, roysh, but I'm ashamed to say I was actually happy with the way it enhanced my street cred.

When goys I'd never met before came up to me in the battlecruiser and went, "Are you the goy whof" I never told them to fock off. I just gave them a little knowing smile.

It's always been a mystery what Christian ever saw in me.

But every goy in the world knows what I know only too well at this moment, standing in the hall, saying goodbye . . . that you're no one without a good wing-man.

Christian was my fast-gun, always watching the door.

And now my biggest problem is that I don't know how this scene ends.

A handshake? A hug? A highfive?

None of them seem enough. So I end up going, "Sof you got your reward and you're just leaving then?" and I watch his little face light up.

"That's right, yeah, " he goes. "I got some old debts I've got to pay off with this stuff. Even if I didn't, you don't think I'd be fool enough to stick around here, do you?

Why don't you come with us?

You're pretty good in a fight. I could use you."

I'm like, "Come on! Why don't you take a look around you? You know what's about to happen, what they're up against. They could use a good pilot like you.

You're turning your back on them."

He's there, "What good's a reward if you're not around to use it? Besides, attacking that battle station's not my idea of courage. It's more likef suicide."

I step outside. "All right, " I go.

"Well, take care of yourself, Han.

I guess that's what you're best at, isn't it?" and I turn and walk across Lansdowne Square, as it storts to piss rain, knowing I can't . . . just focking can't . . . look back.