The last of three. This was harder than I expected (emotionally) to write. As such, it's probably not got the distance and objectivity it needs. I hope it's not too sentimental.

Even though a personal piece, feel free to crit as you think fit.

You probably need to have read the first two, it might work on its own. (John, John II - Tam. Both here in non fiction.)

After I left Doncaster, whenever I returned, John was always there. He was a fixed constant on the map of my life. Maybe five or six times a year I’d go and search him out. He was rarely to be found in his flat unless it was before midday. After that I’d normally do a quick trawl of favourite pubs or the labour or Ukrainian clubs and more often than not I’d find him. If not, someone would usually know where he was and send me in the right direction. He was always welcoming and included me in any group he was drinking with. We always made arrangements to go out later the same day, just the two of us.

It may be me, because I don’t make friends easily, but John was special in that we formed a close relationship very quickly and after a few months of being apart, there was never any awkwardness. I suppose alcohol helped, as usually we consumed plenty, but a shared interest in reading and writers always gave us something to talk about.

After preliminaries and one of us getting a round in, ‘What have you been reading?’ was normally one of the first things he’d say. It wasn’t very often I’d read anything he hadn’t, unless it was post about 1960. He always had something to add or another text to suggest. I learned more from him about classic poets than I did at school and university put together. If I’d been reading something he hadn’t, I could guarantee that the next time I saw him he’d have read it and perhaps done a little reading around. In short, we always had common ground to fire our conversations. As a selfish twenty year old, I didn’t realise it, but in retrospect I know John made far more effort than I to keep up with my literary interests. It took me until after his death to read one book he’d lent me.

John was never without The Telegraph when afternoon drinking. He didn’t own a television and said that even though it had a right wing bias, he liked its range of coverage, particularly that of sport. It was John who introduced me to cryptic crosswords and patiently guided me through the secret language of crossword puzzles. I was fascinated from the start but frustrated that I didn’t take naturally to it. I still have to get Lisa to explain clues to me.

When I left university I went to Bolton for work. I met Lisa, we got married, we bought a house and had children. I saw John far less frequently, especially when my mum fell ill with cancer. I felt guilty if I didn’t spend almost all my time in Doncaster with my family.

A few years ago, I had a phone call from John’s brother George, telling me that John had died. I’d never met George, he still lived in Elgin. I’d not seen John for over a year. George told me I’d missed the funeral and was only ringing because he’d noticed mine were the only details asterisked in John’s address book.

I suppose that is where this story should fizzle out, but it doesn’t. I often wonder if one of the reasons we write, conscious or otherwise, is a desire for some kind of immortality – to leave a bit of ourselves behind. I don’t think that applies to me, I have my children. John had no children, but while I’m still alive, he’s not completely gone. Every time I attempt a crossword, go in a proper pub, read certain poetry - particularly things like Oli’s Scot’s vernacular pieces, drink whiskey with cheese and digestives, walk into my office that’s lined with books, read anything, I have a fleeting picture and sense of John.

He’s the reason I’ve written this and anything else I’ve written for pleasure since I was in school. He’s the reason one of my greatest pleasures is to read. John is the only man outside of my family I’ve ever loved. I miss him very much.