Friday. October 8th 1976.

Gary had flown out the school gates with just his head in his coat. Parka billowed like wings behind him. We screeched the Batman theme as he ran into a beige Ford Escort.

We wrote poems:
‘He was dead good was Gary.
My best mate.
Said he was taking Rachael on a date.
Good at footie.
A laugh in class.
We’d walk together ’til the underpass.’

I didn’t mention the unforgettable thud. How his Parka had lifted with him and came down without. The way I’d stared at his empty hood (orange inside) rather than Gary, bright against the bonnet.

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