I don't know what the breaking point was for me. Not really. You'd rather think it was Monty's accosting me in the bedroom, but I think it might have been the letter more than anything at all. I'd never deliberately set out to hurt anyone and it wasn't really the old bugger's fault that Withnail was such a bloody prick.

Train rides are made for nothing but reflecting as the bleak, grey cityscape and low rent house go by, so I can't help but think about it, about Withnail and what has happened now. It was strange to see it in his eyes - remorse? Perhaps, though I think if that's the case, he's well gotten over it by now. Withnail's primary concern is Withnail and I've no doubts that shall always be the case. I'm not sure I'd have him any other way, but then, I've not got to have him at all any longer.

I light a fag as we head deeper into the country, closing my eyes at the thought of sheep and bulls and cows and anything else that's not already butchered and served on a plate, steaming and seasoned. Garlic, rosemary and salt.

Six months later, and it's opening night.

I'm fucked - tired as shit, completely arseholed on champagne and high on fucking applause. Everyone's laughing and slapping each other on the back, and the lead actress is eyeing me like she's got plans for the lock on the dressing room door when some bloke steps up to me.

"Peter Marwood?"

I look up, surprised. "That's me."

"Package."

I take the box and frown at it. I don't recognize the handwriting, but the address is familiar, and a deep sense of fear rises like bile at the back of my throat. I edge away from the crowd with a faint smile to my co-lead that might still assure me a spot behind the lock on the dressing room door and set the package down.

Could be anything. Could be nothing at all.

I open it because I haven't a choice. It's been months now without word, and I'm not sure whether it's a good thing or bad. Danny's likely staked out my bed with Presuming Ed or the Coalman hiding in the bath and Withnail is likely still Withnail, still pissing off his agent and managing grand lies for free drinks and freezing even now in what passes for summer.

The box contains a pair of Wellingtons with a note from Monty that I can't stomach reading and a can of lighter fluid from Withnail. He's cellotaped a note to it that reads "Chin-Chin."

My co-lead comes up to me and touches my shoulder, tilting her head in the direction of the back. I gather the box and follow her, wondering why I've not noticed before that she smells of petunias.

Five years later, I return to London.

I've done more plays than I can remember. Not the lead in all, but it's my insistence on working more than on the billing that keeps me employed. I run into Danny one night at a restaurant, surprised more than I can admit when I realize who it is. He's dressed in a suit and his hair is cut, but it's that slow, familiar drawl and I know it's him.

"Danny."

"You." He nods and then offers a quick excuse to the gorgeous blonde on his arm. She's too young for him, and far too fancy, but the wide spaced eyes of the toddler with her lets me know that it hasn't seemed to impede either of them at all in copulating.

"You look…"

"Older. Yeah."

"How are you, man?"

"Good. I've done politics now. Prime Minister is next on my list."

"Is it?"

"Gotta have a goal."

"And what about the…" I stop and lower my voice. "The drugs?"

"It was a side business. Lucrative but then it became mainstream. The real way to be outside of the system is to be in the system." He nods and glances over to the table where his blonde and child are seated. "We might be related."

"You and I?"

"No. Her. I can't remember if I have a child that old."

"The boy?"

"No. Her." He nods again. "It's a fucked up world. We live in it."

"We do." I can hear the group I'm with in the distance, calling my name as they wait. We're celebrating the opening of Hamlet at the RSC. Like Monty, I'll never play the Dane, but I've done a decent job as Horatio, and we expect the reviews to be good, so we've every intention of celebrating. "Have you seen Withnail?"

"Not since the rat bite. Told him to stay out of the oven."

Seven years later, I see him again.

He's aged horribly. He's too thin and too pale and his eyes seem huge in his sunken face. It's the King and Cross pub and he's at the corner table holding court over a pair of drunkards. He coughs halfway through his soliloquy and pauses, rasping for breath as he lights another fag. One of the drunks falls forward onto the table, his head in his pot pie. It'd be funny if it weren't so fucking sad.

"Hullo, Withnail."

He freezes and then glances up, tossing back the remains of his drink as he does so. "Well. It's you."

Amazing that, for all that he looks like a ghost of himself, he's still that presence. He's still this huge man in a small, thin, angular body, all voice and pomp without circumstance.

"It's me." I sit at the table, shoving off the remaining drunk, hoping he's sober enough to slide into another booth, though I'm content to let him slip down to the floor.

Withnail straightens and holds out his empty glass. "You're an actor, I hear. All the rage. Telly. Movies. BBC kissing your arse."

"Not quite."

"Bollocks." He grabs the bottle from the middle of the table and refills his glass, emptying again in half the time it took to pour. "Awards and accolades." He spits the words like poison, more balls than talent, but enough of both that I wonder if he could have been anything more than himself if he'd tried. "You're the new man."

"Old man now."

"Old? That's like calling me old. I'm not old. I'm like wine. Vintage. Like Monty's cellar. The finest in all things. That is what I am." He coughs again and leans back, observing me, though I doubt he sees anything but what I reflect back at him. "You've kept the haircut."

"Seemed prudent."

"I don't like it."

"I'll pass that on to my barber."

"I don't like you any longer either."

"No. I don't imagine you do." I stand up and wave to the bartender. "Another bottle for my old friend."

"You're a cunt."

"Course I am, Withnail. I learned from the best."

Ten years later, Monty dies

I've not seen him since, though there's much sniggering behind closed doors, from what I hear, as he died as he would have wished, just finished buggering someone half his age. I was invited to the reading of the will, but filming a new movie kept me away.

I received a letter that night, delivered by an effete lawyer and written in Monty's scrawling hand. A legacy of twenty thousand pounds, as well as the contents of half of his wine cellar, assuming it withstood whatever raiding party Withnail might lead.

Apologies and memories and Latin I'd have to have translated and regret. So much regret. And, as always, Montague Withnail's wicked sense of humor.

He left the cottage to Withnail and I.