I got a phone call the other day from someone I knew had left the country.
He had a few problems some years back and he scarpered to avoid retribution in spades, not only from the police but a few other people as well.
He was calling from Glasgow, he said. He had popped back because his old Mum was ill and he wanted to see her before she died. He wouldn't be going to the funeral, as people would be looking for him. They'd never think he would be back before, and probably didn't even know she was ill.
Why he called me was a complete mystery, except he and I had always got on well, and, in so far as I trust anyone, I had trusted him. One might say there is honour amongst thieves. In some small way I had helped him when he first went overseas, but, on reflection, I had probably heard nothing from him for more than 15 years.
He was doing well. He had not had loads of money when he went, but he had managed to make a life for himself. He was married with two kids. They were very happy. He regretted his earlier life. He blamed the people he went about with in the late 80's. They were still looking for him.
This last was hardly surprising, as he had left depositions for the Procurator Fiscal about the activities of certain gentlemen.But he had left before any trials as he knew he would never survive day one.
He thanked me for my small service. He said he would buy me a drink if we ever met again, but failed to tell me where he was.
It was an interesting conversation, and it set me thinking.
It makes no difference what happens, life goes on.
Unless you're dead of course.