This next chapter is c.1995 - I did look up all the little references and stuff but don't hunt me down if they're wrong.

Twenty Years Later

Howard looked around at his newly purchased flat. Finally, a place to call his own rather than spending one night here and there at various dodgy motels he'd been staying in for the last couple of weeks. No, every little bit of this flat belonged to him (and the Royal Bank of Scotland). The bland walls were his. The peeling wall paper was his. The smell of damp and black water stains in the ceiling were all his. He dropped his final box onto the old threadbare carpet and tried to ignore the fag burns and the bald patches beneath his feet. This wasn't exactly paradise. It wasn't half of what he'd hoped his first real home would be like but it would do. This was the only flat in the Brixton area that he could afford and he'd been told by everyone in journalism that this was the place to be if he wanted a shot at writing for up and coming magazine 'Jazz Monthly'. He'd just have to endure the obvious faults the studio flat had until he was earning £2.50 a word, or something equally outrageous for his jazz rants, and could but a better one.

As soon as he'd found a place for his stuff and shoved the empty boxes in and around the bin, he went out. He found the nearest coffee house, where the coffee was served in tiny coffee glasses and the chocolate was fair trade only. The whole place was dark mahogany, decorated with deep reds and blacks and even before Howard stepped through the door, he thought better of it and went to a cheaper looking coffee shop down the road. This cafe sold coffee in chipped mugs had tacky, white, school-canteen walls with paintings that looked like they'd been purchased in Poundland. It was smoky too. A man was puffing away happily on a cigar on a nearby table as he puzzled through the crossword in a copy of The Evening Standard. Howard couldn't help smile when he saw the paper. He'd be writing for them by next week. It wasn't jazz monthly but it was something.

The music flooding through the tinny speakers was something Howard recognised, something vaguely Caribbean and summery. He couldn't for the life of him remember the song's name, though it made him smile.

He liked London already. He liked the hustle and bustle, the way no one was afraid to stand out and the way everyone tried to ignore others. Everyone was so caught up in their own lives, they didn't have time to worry about other people's. It wasn't like his old village at all, where everyone was so wrapped up in each other's lives, they forgot to live there own. The queue at the counter was huge and he managed to end up behind two gossipy old woman, with lots of curly hair tinted pink. They had to be the only gossipy people he'd seen since he arrived in the capital a fortnight ago.

"Is this Choice FM?" The one nattered to the other, "I tell you what, this station is rubbish."

"It's only been going for a few months."

"Longer than that surely."

"A year at the most."

"Well, this DJ's useless."

"Mm. He's the good looking one though, isn't he? The one they send out to meet people."

"I don't know." The first woman answered. They reminded Howard so much of his mother and the gossipy church woman of the old village, who used to get together just to gossip about people they didn't really know anything about.

"So." The DJ's voice broke the end of the song, "That was Bob Marley with Buffalo Solider."

Of course it was, Howard's brain uselessly informed him. He'd almost forgotten he'd been trying to work it out.

"Now, don't forget to enter out competition. We're giving away tickets to be at the Bob Dylan gig at the newly refurbished Brixton Academy this coming Saturday. All you've got to do is answer this question; What was the name of Bob Dylan's character in the 'Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid'? And that film came out in 1973, so start rooting through old video's and cassette's and stuff. Dylan wrote the theme music for that as well, didn't he? I think he did. I think that was the album that brought us Knocking on Heaven's Door." The DJ chuckled a bit, a giddy infectious, almost familiar, chuckle. Howard listened carefully for any more clues. He'd always like Bob Dylan and he'd always loved a good quiz question, it might be worth entering.

"And now I know there's a ton of researchers in the next room, who are going to go out of their way to find out if that's true." The DJ laughed again and Howard wished he'd just get on with the question again, "Anyway, if you can tell me the name of Bob Dylan's character in the film 'Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid', phone on 08700 702 969 or, if you're into that newfangled texting-thing, then text the answer to 61236. Or, the producer's telling me, you can write a letter, if you're from the 1940's, the address is; 'Competition dash Vince Noir Show, Choice FM, 30 Leicester Square, London, WCH2H 7LA'"

Howard jolted, his heart stopped and his breath caught in his throat. Did he hear that right? He strained his ears to listen again.

"And don't forget to put 'Competition dash Vince Noir Show.' Otherwise I'll never get it. So that address again…"

As Vince repeated the address, Howard snatched the pen from the fingers of the crossword man and scribbled it down desperately on the back of his hand.

"Thanks." he said, throwing the pen back on to the table. The man grumbled something but Howard didn't hear it. He couldn't believe this. Surely it couldn't be the Vince Noir; his Vince Noir. He'd probably get there and find some weirdo, who was nothing like Vince but it had to be worth a try.

He hadn't seen his old friend for so many years but that hadn't stopped him waking up with nightmares of the last time he saw him; visions of Vince struggling, craving help but always just out of reach. Fingertips would brush together but Howard could never save him. Never.

"Oi Love." Howard snapped out of his daydream and was greeted by the annoyed face the woman behind the till. "What d'you want?"

"Oh, ummm, coffee… to go." he added, he couldn't waste time sat in a coffee house, he had to find Vince.

He'd tried to flag down a taxi, then he'd attempted a bus but eventually had been forced to just ask for directions and walk the four or so miles to the studio. The people of London weren't exactly the most accommodating he'd ever met. Suddenly, the fact they were wrapped up in their own existence didn't seem so appealing. Most didn't even have time to help point a desperate man in the right direction. Eventually, after much second guessing and more than a little luck, Howard found himself outside a tall building. The building had an entirely glass front wall, to make it look cool and trendy and it looked like King Kong had taken some giant green and purple marker pens and scrawled the words 'Choice FM' scruffily across the front. That was probably supposed to be cool too. He sighed. Now what? He was outside the building but he could hardly stroll in and ask to speak to Vince Noir. Would he even recognise Vince after all this time? Would Vince even remember who he was? So, he resorted to the Howard Moon secret tactic… he stalked out the building.

Howard had gotten his hopes every time the building's door opened and by the time he saw two men both of whom were about the right age to be Vince, he was a nervous wreck. From across the car park, neither of these men looked even remotely like his old friend. The one man, the taller one, was wearing a suit and seemed to be trying to act important whilst the other was wearing jeans and a polo shirt and seemed to be totally relaxed. Despite their contrasting appearances, Howard couldn't help feel they seemed to be equals and Howard had a sudden crazy impulse that these two men would be able to lead him to Vince. He crept quickly closer, trying to be as discreet. Well, as discreet as a 6 foot plus man can be in an empty, radio station car park.

"You at the festival tomorrow 'en?" asked the man in the suit. He had totally the wrong accent to be Vince.

"Yeah." grinned the smaller man. "Producers got me in, said as the only moderately attractive member of the DJ team I had to get down their and meet the public."

Howard studied this man for a long time. His hair was short, he was clean shaven and smart looking, if a little casual in his relaxed clothes. But his grin… his cheeky, mega-watt grin was altogether familiar. Howard couldn't stop his heart jumping a little as he entertained the prospect that this could be Vince… maybe.

"You're kidding?" The suited man said, in genuine disbelief.

"Nope. I am Choice FM's answer to Brad Pitt."

"No, Vince. You are a doorknob." Howard's breath caught in his throat. His name was Vince. It had to be him, didn't it? He quickened his walking so he was even closer to the two men.

"A moderately attractive doorknob." The man named Vince corrected.

"Oh yeah! Coz the streets are just lined with girls scrambling to get at you."

The younger man laughed. "Ah well." he shrugged, "I don't need hordes of girls. I've got a very beautiful woman waiting for me at home."

Howard's heart sank a bit. A woman waiting for him? He didn't know how to feel about that. Should he be questioning this man's likelihood of actually being Vince Noir, his childhood friend? Should he be angry because Reverend Noir had got his way? But the one thing he felt he really shouldn't be feeling was the emotion that seemed to be eating away at him most; jealousy.

"Oh yeah. How long is that charade going to last?"

Charade? Was this relationship a scam to please his father? To please the world?

"What charade?" Vince asked.

"Well… I mean she's clearly too good for you." And Howard's dreams were dashed again. He wasn't sure how much more of this emotional rollercoaster he could take.

"I know but 'shhhhhhh'. She doesn't seemed to have noticed that yet."

The older man turned to what had to be Vince and laughed. Then his eyes caught glimpse of Howard creeping none too stealthily up behind them.

"Oi." he shouted. "What the hell d'you think you're doing?"

"I, erm. Ummm, I er… ummm."

"Spit it out."

"Errrrr..."

At that moment the smaller man, who Howard was convinced by now had to be Vince, began to peer intently at Howard's face with giant, glassy, blue eyes. He looked like he was trying really hard to dig up some long forgotten memory of as the suited man said; "Well?"

Vince cried; "Howard! Howard Moon?"

"Ummm, yeah." smiled the older man, relieved beyond belief that his friend recognised him at all.

"Well, well." Vince shook his head in astonishment, "I can't believe… all these years and then… here you are. How are you?"

He held out his hand to Howard. Howard took it and they shook like two men who'd completed a successful business deal. There was something about the shake that made Howard feel uncomfortable and there was something about this new Vince in general that made him feel like there was some deep, dark secret yet to be all this time of thinking, Vince had been babbling on and on, just like he always used to. Howard quickly tuned his ears into Vince's frequency just in time to hear,

"…I'm at a festival tomorrow. You should come. Wait here, I'll get you a ticket."