I suppose it all started the day I received Boom’s e-mail:

           Get over here now! Just came across something that could blow the Files wide open!

I have to say I was intrigued. Very intrigued. Boom may have had his faults, but he was not prone to exaggeration. Especially where the Ex-Files were concerned.

Boom and I had first met some years earlier as students at the University of Exeter. Although I did not really get to know him till the the second year I, like many others, knew of him well before then– his reputation for madcap escapades had seen to that. Whenever you heard, say, that some impatient revellers had staged an impromptu party on the top of a bus shelter, or that Lord Kitchener, mounted proudly on his charger outside the County Court building, had suddenly taken to wearing ladies’ underwear (on his head) you could be sure Boom was involved. In the so-called ‘grown up’ world of careers, ambition and status, such exploits would no doubt seem frivolous, puerile even, but in our world, the real world, they never failed to fire the imagination.

I think we admired Boom so much because he embodied a sense of freedom, an innocence, an exuberance that burned brightly in us all. More than that I believe he made us aware, on some deep unconscious level, that this was a truly magical moment in our lives, one I now know we would never see again. Perhaps that is why we found discussing his antics so exciting. I can remember spending many a happy hour at the Union coffee bar between lectures doing just that. We would be chatting merrily away about everything and anything, but whenever Boom’s name came up, the tone of the conversation always changed. The atmosphere would become expectant, conspiratorial almost, especially if his latest exploit was considered particularly foolhardy or daring, like the time he and some of his ‘Merry Men’ staged a late night raid on Ashburn Grange, the hall of residence reserved for post graduates. The plan was to set off the fire alarms, then hide in the bushes nearby to see if any half-dressed lecturers were ‘smoked out’. None were apparently. Or the time Boom and company were coming home from the pub and thought it might be nice to call in at St Hilda’s High, the posh girls’ school situated about a mile from the University, and treat the boarders to a midnight serenade. The group were barely halfway through a varied repertoire (of rugby songs, mainly) when they felt compelled to evacuate the hallowed grounds of St Hilda’s by the appearance of Mrs Crump, the formidable headmistress of that institution. Her subsequent demand that the University authorities find those responsible so she could ‘give them a piece of her mind’ came to nothing, other than sparking the rumour that what she was really after was not retribution, but a repeat performance.

Although Boom could drink with the best of them and was not averse to the odd ‘dust-up’ when the occasion demanded it, I would not like to give the impression he was just another of those beer-swilling rowdies that are ten-a-penny at any British university. For one thing his laboratory work and examination results placed him in the top three percent of the Department of Biochemistry. He was also a good sportsman, possessed of a ready wit, rakish charm and that supreme self-confidence girls seem to find irresistible. Even the ones who deny it. Nevertheless it was his devil-may-care attitude to life that people found most attractive, an attitude that perhaps found its greatest expression one legendary night at the Plaza Curry House.

The Plaza itself was something of a legend in those days. Situated in an anonymous side street on the fringes of the city centre, it was hardly prepossessing; but its dingy exterior, peeling wall paper, cracked lino floors and trestle tables covered in tatty oilcloth only added to its mystique. The same could be said for Charlie, the Plaza’s owner. Said to be from the Horn of Africa, this Charlie was a jovial soul, whose broad grin never wavered despite the tiresome antics of the drunken students that formed the bulk of his clientele. But then only the drunk would have considered eating at the Plaza. It has never ceased to astound me that no-one ever contracted food poisoning there. People did try and put forward theories to account for this. Some argued that the legions of E. coli, botulism and salmonella that were presumed to inhabit the place were so busy battling each other for final mastery of this Promised Land, they never had any time left to spend on the customers. Less controversial was the notion that the amount of chilli Charlie and his henchmen used to heap in those infernal curries would have killed ninety-nine percent of all known germs, and left the other one percent seriously considering its position. And herein lay the Plaza’s popularity: Charlie’s ‘cuisine’ was seen as a challenge, a rite of passage that many a student felt they had to undergo. Everything on the menu was classified according to its chilli content and nothing else. Dishes lying at the milder end of the scale could give you plenty to think about, but were rarely ordered: it was considered bad form to go lower than a ‘Hottie.’ And there were a number of degrees up from this, with appetising names such as ‘Killer’ and ‘Suicide.’ Last of all came the infamous ‘Charlie’s Special.’ I only ever saw one once. It looked like a heap of volcanic lava that was about to melt through the plate. Few were ever drunk enough or foolish enough to order a ‘Special’. Even fewer were known to have finished one.

From the somewhat biased and two-dimensional caricature I have drawn of Boom, the reader has probably already guessed that he counted amongst Charlie’s regular customers. The night in question was, according to subsequent accounts, a typical Saturday night at the Plaza. Waves of students kept rolling up as the pubs shut up shop, bringing helpings of laughter, cheering and singing with them. One group of freshers marched up to Charlie and announced they were on a snap inspection from the Public Health Department. That Charlie’s aplomb remained unshaken by this would have surprised no-one; what was remarkable was that he could still find an indulgent smile for a jape he had had to endure so many times before. Boom arrived around midnight with some of the usual suspects. He ordered a ‘Special’, which was rare but not unheard of. However he soon caused consternation when, having tried a few mouthfuls, he called Charlie over and asked him to take the curry back to the kitchen and ‘hot it up a bit’. Even the unflappable Charlie was taken aback for a moment, presumably weighing up the extent to which a death on the premises would be bad for business. Nonetheless he complied with Boom’s request. By now the rest of the ‘diners’ had got wind of what was going on. People started to gather round Boom’s table to see if this madman could actually finish this very special ‘Special.’ Gasps of surprise and hoots of encouragement were followed by loud cheers from all present as the last mouthful went down. Boom later admitted that the curry had ‘nearly blown his slats off,’ but it had been worth it, for even if some misguided soul did try to emulate his feat in the future, everyone would know who had been the first to conquer this particular Everest.

Boom and I moved in very different circles and it is highly unlikely we would ever have become friends had not an unexpected change in circumstances brought me into contact with a friend of his, another remarkable individual.