When we were teenagers, Ray's wildness was exciting. Talking back to teachers, turning up and leaving when he felt like it, even the way he crossed the road expecting the traffic to stop: to the rest of us, it was a marvel, inspiring and liberating.

It's funny, he didn't look different to me or Gary, his best mates. He was another brown-haired, skinny boy, just one who radiated what even then people called ‘attitude’. The normal rules didn’t apply to him. We didn’t know why,  he just made it that way. It was as though he had some special power, some sense of himself that set him apart.

So, we smiled when he threw his PE kit in the bin at the start of a lesson, silently staring at the teacher, daring him to comment. We were bemused when he keyed a car a couple of streets from his house but just accepted that there must be a reason. Even when he set his home alight, literally walking away whilst it went up in flames, we didn't understand the pain. We moved from being in awe to colluding in the excuses, pretending things were accidental or not his fault, whilst gradually admiring him less and fearing him more.

It only really began to make any sordid sense when his father died and Ray attacked one of the men at the funeral. Apparently, he had winked at him or something, acknowledging a shared secret that exploded when Ray dived at him as the coffin was being lowered, Ray screaming and tearing at him, finally letting out years of anger.

I still don't want to know what those men did to him, what had led to all of that. I'm just grateful it didn't happen to me.