My brother disappeared

Bike rides perched on his handlebars, at whizzing in and out of traffic he was a superstar.
Not quite top-of-the-class in tests, but he was the one who was everyone’s friend, and he was the one who they all went to when they had a real problem, he’d know just what to do.
Older in wisdom than his looks had you believe. Swift in thought, his candour deceived.
But still just a boy-come-man of 17; the apple of his mother’s eye, shiny green; the eldest son of a working class dad; brother to three younger; a really good lad.
He did right by me, looked after me, did what a big brother does – he frightened me, he excited me, he played with me, he cradled me, he scolded me, he consoled me.
And despite this, what I don’t understand, is why I can’t see his face when I cover my eyes with my hands.

Read a newspaper? Daily.
Attended rallies? Maybe.
Stood by you to the end? Until the bitter, bitter end.

Never quite knew what happened. There was a blazing sun. He took me by the left hand; in my right was the pail from lunch.
We left school at 3. We walked past the tyre place. We turned left into a road of rich houses. Walked at a little faster pace.
He turned to look back and then forward again. I skipped along a little faster counting to ten, playing a game pretending in calm, that I had not felt the sweat come over his palm.
His walk became a jog and then with a burst of speed, he swung me over his shoulder and took the lead as if he was in a sprint race that would determine his life. I don’t know why but I started to cry. I pushed my face into his shirt. The pens pushed back but I winced through the hurt.
He must have dashed into someone’s yard because I felt a thud and didn’t dare look up. He had dropped me to the ground. I didn’t dare look up. I didn’t dare look up, not until a few minutes passed when an elderly man picked me up by the arm. He took me the next block to my home.