It was a photograph that was the initial spark for George Dunsley to take a trip of over two-hundred miles to visit his old friend.

A black and white photo of him with Noodle, real name Charles Oldroyd, taken in 1959, leaning against the back of an army jeep in a British military base, part of the twelfth signal regiment, stationed out in Cyprus, where they had a joint operation with supporters of the Cyprian presidential system, opponents of Turkish Cypriots who were not recognised politically. So tensions undulated, and George and Noodle sometimes had to keep the peace, but it was nothing major at the time. No one was killing each other, just debating and shouting and pointing accusing fingers.

At seventy-nine, he was born just after the Second World War, but was too young to be drafted into the army when conscription ended. However, he was a teenager and full of vigour and patriotism, eager to fight for his country, even though his country was not at war. He and Noodle signed up the second they could, and when posted to Cyprus soon complained of boredom. They had visions of heroism, defeating the enemy and returning to adulation. Their visions of what war was like and its reality were quite different.

So, like caged Lions, they lost their enthusiasm, their drive, and just settled into being soldiers, ready for action should the call come.

After five years peace-keeping, they were posted out to Mauritius to a British communications outpost, and again, nothing happened. No conflict. Everybody got along just fine.

Then out to the Philippines to keep the peace between the supporters of two political parties, which sometimes spilled over into violence, but no more violent than a brief skirmish outside of British pubs at weekend last orders.

However, when it was time to wind up and fly back to England, after sixteen years of not firing one bullet, of keeping order between those sometimes prone to violence, he and Noodle and another friend were heading to a helicopter on a field by a beach, the edge of which was the beginnings of a lush rainforest. The chopper was to fly them back to the outpost where a ship was waiting to sail them back to England, and what seemed a spur of the moment decision by Noodle was that he decided not to go. The helicopter was about fifty metres from him, and he said goodbye and simply walked into the forest. George watched as he walked away into the trees.

That was the last he ever saw of him, and wasn’t surprised by that. Noodle was kind of a free-spirit. Would probably be the type of person who would tell his parents at the dinner table, ‘By the way, I’m emigrating to Tazmania tomorrow, so you’ll probably never see me again.’ And carry eating his mushy peas. Until he decided on something else. Half of the peace-keeping was getting between Noodle and those he didn’t trust, and he didn’t trust a lot of people; he saw them as potential enemies. Spies perhaps. Noodle was quite hot-headed, prone to outbursts, and he did fire his gun quite a few times. Not at people, but at walls and trees and into the air, because a person like him wanted action but was frustrated by the lack of it.

When George came back to England, he settled down to life outside the army, becoming a coach driver and retiring as normal. Marrying Jeanette, who had died three years ago of chronic pulmonary disease, and having three children, with two teenage grandchildren, none of whom lived far. His place was a rather open house. His children and grandchildren came round most days, looking after grandad, making sure he was alright, had everything he needed. Although they all knew he used to be a soldier, no one, not even his own children, had ever asked about his war days. What did you do in the war grandad? had never been asked.

Yet, even if it was asked, his answer would simply have been: ‘Not much, kept the peace, maintained communications, and whatever else my superiors asked of me’. Where were the children interested? he had wondered on more than one occasion, or did they think that grandad never talked about his war days? Where were they told by their parents? Grandad doesn’t like to talk about his war days, so don’t ask.

His children had kind of unofficially called this house their own. Having the run of the place. They all had keys, and his second born had decided to clear out his loft, and so had brought down items such as a ragged duvet, dust grained cups and plates and a box of old photographs. One of his grandchildren had been nosing through them and came across the photo of him and Noodle at the back of the jeep.

‘Whose that Grandad?’ his grandson asked. The photograph brought back a swathe of memories, and at one point, he asked the obvious question, more to himself:

I wonder what ever happened to Noodle?

His grandson decided to play amateur detective, wanting to surprise George by telling him where Noodle was, as he was quite handy on computers, in cyberspace, and had school friends who were equally as good, if not better.

Noodle proved to be a tough nut to crack, though. Nothing available on the web. Nothing on social media. It almost seemed as if the photograph was the only evidence of his existence, so he would have to spread the net wider.

An email to the national military archives did reveal his name, rank and regiment, but that was all. Army heritage soldier research revealed a military record that showed the same information. No relations. No family. No photographs. Barely a digital footprint that this man ever existed, and barely a footprint outside of cyberspace, except for perhaps the photograph and George’s memory.

Eventually it was one of his grandson’s friends who was exasperated by the lack of information, and saw this as a challenge, was convinced there must be more out there, decided that maybe police archives could reveal something, so he tried emailing criminal records offices and making a subject access request and deep diving the internet again for anything regarding Noodle, but he just came up against a virtual brick wall. Access denied. Access denied. Access denied.

So he used illegal software to hack into police classified documents, and came up with thousands of files, but eventually whittled the names down the one page he discovered featured Noodle’s mugshot and his scant information. Arrested and incarcerated for assault.

Sent to Coston high security prison for seven years.

It was fairly easy to hack into their files. They were buried on a barely used database where his file had not been opened in years, but there he was, another mugshot of a haggard-looking tramp, who looked like he slept in dumpsters. His uncut, straggly, greasy hair was probably crawling with lice.

The friend of the grandson also discovered that his prison record seemed the most complete. Noodle went to a psychiatric unit. He almost decided he would hack into their system, but first thought that he would try an enquiring email to see if they would give him any information.

He didn’t have to hack their database. A freedom of information policy meant they simply sent him Noodle’s photocopied file. It was quite extensive, and the friend didn’t bother to read it, but did discover at the end it said he was released in 1986, and gave a forwarding address. 246 miles away in the small village of  Boyden, 15 miles in from the east coast. There was a small farm which had long since ceased to function and was just his residence now. Whether he was still there, or didn’t live alone, was anybody’s guess, but he gave the address to George’s grandson and thought nothing of it.

As George was watching a rugby match on television, his eldest daughter Margaret came and stood in front of him, blocking his view. She held out the photograph, attached to which was a note.

“What’s this?” he said, and took it.

“We found Noodle, that’s his address. We can go and surprise him”. George stared at the photo, and the address, and a wave of apprehension and nostalgia swept over him.

“We can all make a weekend of it,” she said, “We can go and stay in a nearby hotel, and you can go and see Noodle. Then maybe you can bring him to meet us, and we can all go to a restaurant together. Or, well, something like that. Maybe we can all go and see him at this farm place”

Noodle looked out from the past as if to say, ‘Come on, old friend, come and visit’.

He nodded, “Yes, alright.” After more than fifty years, he would see his friend Noodle once again.

For the next few days, he was apprehensive. The thing about friendships is that, although you know the person to a certain extent, when you lose touch, especially for years, they revert to being strangers. Not fully, but enough.

However, the thought of seeing Noodle again was appealing. What would he be like? What happened after he walked away into that jungle? There would be plenty to catch up on, and any apprehension left him. He was looking forward to it. A chance to catch up with his old comrade.

So they booked a bed and breakfast, and Margaret drove them on the six-hour car journey.

They stopped once at motor services for which he was grateful, as he needed a stretch, but soon they were back on the road, sometimes crawling along because of roadworks, but eventually they were making their way along country lanes, and pulling into the village, which mostly consisted of small shops, bungalows, a tavern, with several bed and breakfasts.

After around half an hour, they were all booked into the bed and breakfast, and George and Margaret had left their grandchildren inside, complaining of having not much to do, so will probably be spending most of their time on their phones and tablets.

“Alright, here we are,” she said, and looked at the map on her phone. “Time for you to go and surprise Noodle”

“What if he’s not in?” he asked, more to himself.

“Well, while we’re here, we’ll just have to keep going back, unless someone can tell us where he is”.

So they set off. According to the map, it was around a mile away, along a curving country lane that gradually sloped upwards.

The apprehension came back to him as they made their way, and eventually they reached the crest of the lane where there was an old, small building, on the side of which was a weathered, cracked sign which read ‘Boyden farm’.

“This is it,” said his daughter, “I’ll leave you to it. If he’s not in, give me a ring. We’re going around the shops”. She waved him goodbye and went back down the lane, leaving him to look at the small building which had been converted into somebody’s abode.

There were several ‘Keep-out’ signs around, but he was here now, and this was his old comrade, so it should be fine.

He approached an old rusty gate and entered.

As his daughter came back into the village, her phone rang. It was her grandson who was still in the bed and breakfast.

“Mum, mum, stop grandad going to meet that guy,”

“What? Why, what’s wrong?”

“My mate has been reading his file. He’s got several criminal records and spent most of his life in jail for murder, kidnapping, assault, and torture. The guy's a psycho. Please stop him…” Her eyes widened, and she looked back up the lane.

George took the photograph of both of them from his pocket to show him and knocked on the door. There was no answer. It seemed like the place was empty, abandoned, and after a minute or so, decided he would try around the back.

He stopped on the corner at the rear of the building, surveying the area. It looked like a large garage. Concrete floor with tufts of grass and weeds breaking through. Car parts and tools were scattered around. Those, too, looked like they had not been touched in years. A rusted tractor near a fence bordering onto a field was gradually being reclaimed. All was quiet, as if nobody had been here in years.

There was a door further along that was open.

He was about to walk towards it when there was a loud voice behind him.

“Get off my land, you fucking thief!” and his stomach erupted as a shotgun blast tore into him, shattering his spine just above his hips, almost tearing him in half.

He fell heavily to the floor and tried to crawl, in shock. His lower half stayed where it was, but his upper half managed to crawl a few inches as the skin ripped away. Blood and innards spilled out onto the concrete, glistening.

Noodle stepped across, and George, in shock and panicky, looked up at his old comrade, looking even worse than in his prison photographs. Older, more haggard, as if he had never washed, only ate unhealthy foods and smoked like a chimney. Noodle saw that he was clutching a photograph and took it from his hand.

He stared at it for a while.

Margaret had made it to the gate, exhausted from running.

Noodle looked back down at his shocked, white-faced old friend. He watched as the life ebbed away from him, and George moved no longer. His glassy eyes staring at nothing.

Noodle nodded to himself with acceptance that everything was over for him. He dropped the picture, turned the shotgun on himself, and placed the barrels beneath his jaw. He blew his head off.

Noodle would see George again, but not in this world.