When I was young, I went to St John’s Primary School where I had a black-haired friend, Brian. We were inseparable. He lived in Fisher Street, two or three streets away.
One day I am sent on an errand by my older brother, David, to get a pack of cigs at the local deli. I am only 10, but this was legal those days.
I walk up our street, Invergowrie Avenue, and turn into Fullerton Road. In the very far distance is a small boy walking. Or does he seem small because of how far away he is?
I am momentarily side-tracked from getting my brother his cigs at the deli. This young boy walks closer to Fisher Street, where my friend lives, and turns into the street. Moments earlier the penny had dropped: this isn’t Brian. I look again. Wait a minute, this is Brian. I start running along Fullerton Road, all the way to Fisher Street, yelling ‘Brian, Brian, Brian…’ Turning into Fisher Street I’m now breathless.
The young boy ahead does not turn his head. Well, not until I catch him and slap him on the back, yelling, ‘Brian, I caught you.’
Now, in horror, his head turns and my eyes light up in matching horror. This is not Brian. He doesn’t say a word, or maybe he does. Now he’s crying. Terror in his eyes, he runs down Fisher Street. Fortunately, I didn’t see his mum and dad in the distance.
I hightailed out of there. Not sure if Dave got his cigs, or if I ever saw the mystery boy again.
Burnside Writers Group 