I pulled my scarf tighter against wind that had blown in from nowhere. The sun snuffed out. I could no longer hear the heavy traffic on the flyover.

In the darkness was a familiar pub; one we used as kids. My head thumped; this shouldn’t be happening. The pub was knocked down decades ago.

Then, something to take to my grave. It’s exactly fifty years ago: to the day, the hour, the minute. Most of the usual crew are here; Ian, John, David, Donald, all recently left school. Dressed in tank-tops tucked into baggy trousers. Feathered mullets; except David who has an Afro. David is White. Everyone is White.

And Tony. Sweet Tony; limp wrist, high voice, sashays when he moves.

There’s too much beer: Double Diamond, Snake Bites, Light and Bitter. And, a Port and Lemon for Tony.

My mates of fifty years ago. I shudder and know it’s not the wind. Everything is being repeated for me: lads out; chatter, boasting, loud music.

Then. Bam! It kicks off. A drunken declaration is made: my fists clench. I’m pushing, swearing, threating.

Humiliated, Tony flees in tears. I curse after him as the motorbike roars away.

News spreads slowly. A motorbike hit a parked van. No other vehicle involved. Empty street. A lad, eighteen, with his head bashed in, dead at the scene. What was he thinking?

I hadn’t thought about it in fifty years. But, today I remember that night when a poof told me that he loved me.