Compelled as I am to honour my friend, I can find no way to begin that doesn’t sound like a eulogy. The gut punch is the same, maybe worse.

He was a great man in the classical sense of the word and a good man in the normal understanding, legal scruples aside. Is a great man I should say. But it’s hard to speak of someone in the present tense when you last saw them four years past. When they’ve been relegated to a voice on the phone. A ghost.

‘You’ll get married first’, he said to me at a ripe thirteen. ‘A**** second. Me last, unless I get a girl pregnant.’ Wrong about me (I knew even then he would be – he was always the true romantic of our trio and me the quietly distrusting one). But right otherwise. Are all children so self-aware so young? So self-fulfilling?

Sometimes I’d make him stumble, but his way around an argument was second to none back then. He’d recover quick enough. Impressive verbal gymnastics and the impish desire to take things too far were always a high-risk, high-reward combination. He took Law and went on to study English so of course he considered being a solicitor and a politician. And of course he might’ve been either and easily too, such was his potential – I believed that then and still believe that now. But great man as he is, he was fated to be the master of his own lot and destiny. ‘I’m either going to be filthy rich or broke, dead or in prison.’ I always believed that one too. Did we have to be so right?

And who answers unknown phone numbers any more? I have one saved as “HMP London?” for what little good it does. They seem to rotate between lines so who knows how often I miss his calls. Still it popped up last weekend so I eagerly answered, months since we last spoke. Back to court on Monday. More pertinent evidence was coming down the pipeline in May so he’d moved to adjourn. ‘Pray for me.’ It went without saying.

We ducked down in the car once, hiding together from scar-faced African scammers that we’d scammed back – after splitting fried chicken with them in Ramadan, ha. We burnt that car, unrelated incident. Remember the smell, the heat? I just googled the statute of limitations, I think we’re good. Remember sniffing a lick, following that car down from Natwest but it turned out to be old friends? Sleeping on the living room couch with our stray-found pitbull and that safe, fluctuating between intermittent shopping sprees and barely making rent. For a time with a machete on the table, and that strap under the pillow. At least we were free though. Wild to think back on now. I wonder if that whole period was inevitable.

How many times had two of us wanted out but the third didn’t? Maybe that was the stupidest agreement we’d made – that all three had to agree for us to be out. It was supposed to be for the summer, then to ten grand, then a year and then until A**** didn’t have to work. And then until we built something legit. And then and then and then… The goalposts always matured, but always shifted by the same token.

The romantic in you really thought that you could jump on every grenade for the people around you and that this grand gesture would somehow be enough… for something. But we both knew I always had one foot out the door. The writing was on the wall when business and family started to mix – my one red line. I suppose that was inevitable too. Our preventive measures were so childish in retrospect and you can’t serve two masters after all. In my arrogance, I really thought I could stop disaster if I was there to oversee things. If it wasn’t for family, I might’ve jumped after you into hell itself. Remember you’d tease me that I showed you your first cheeky scam? That I’d seeded the first order? I’m sorry if I actually precipitated what transpired. Moreover I’m sorry I left. I had to.

He rang again three days ago. ‘My ass is bleeding.’ Colourful. Thirty years is punitive, however they try to spin it. I’m still reeling. Murderers and rapists have seen less. Whether or not unlawful crimes are committed is irrelevant, is subservient, to the greater good of the Rule of Law. For all his verbal gymnastics, street savvy and game, I think he truly believed in that greater ideal, the romantic fool. A criminal who thought the cops would play a fair game, that the game itself wasn’t rigged.

They were always going to make an example out of him, but he hoped he had a fair shot. That he would get his grand gesture. His moment to display the great man he’s always been. So he stood tall and got crushed for it.

Three days ago I heard the light fade from his voice. I fear this is how demons are forged. But the story isn’t over I tell myself. May approaches fast. He has all the time and ability in the world to bide and appeal. I still believe in him. And his grand gesture means something to the few who may care.