"YOW Georgie!" I screamed as I ran outside.

"Georgie!" I bellowed yet again.

"Yeah", the voice answered from behind the fence, "Mi soon forward."

"Memba fi bring the ting dem, 'cause mi ago dus yuh out today fi sure," I warned him.

"Yuh a eediat, yuh tink mi new to dis?" he responded.

Georgie was my best friend. We were both the same age, 12. We grew up together. Every Saturday after I followed mother to the market, we would meet under the big guinep tree in my yard to play marbles.

That day as I scampered around the yard anticipating the 'war,' excitement grew within me. I proceeded to act like Jet Lee, as I pretended to box an invisible opponent. I was warming up. The marbles bounced around inside my pocket. I stopped and scooped out 10 beautiful marbles, most of which were new since Georgie had managed to beat me more often than not. But that day, as I prepared my game face, I was ready to beat Georgie and take over the bragging rights -- well, at least for that day.

Georgie was always happy. I often wondered how come. I used to listen to Mother lament about not being able to make ends meet but how grateful she was since she knew Miss Esmie had it worse. Miss Esmie was Georgie's grandmother.

"His mother ran away from he was a baby," mother explained. Yet, he never once complained. His clothes were always hand-me-downs some of which Mother insisted I should give him though he was taller than I was. We attended the same school, and though we were never in the same class, I knew Georgie did very well at math. I, too, was never bad at the subject, but I have always admired how quickly he could calculate in his head. Georgie was destined for great things.

We started our duel with the usual ceremony of exchanging food. That day, it was a star fruit for an East Indian mango and Georgie took the initiative with the psychological warfare, taunting and teasing me, parading his trophies of previous bouts before me.

We were in our fifth game when we heard several loud explosions and from previous experience we knew these were gunshots. Surprisingly enough, these sounded rather loud as if they were coming from just beyond the fence. We were right. It happened so fast that we froze dumbfounded as a lanky young man in white Ts and faded jeans fumbled over the fence and ran by us towards the back of the yard. More shots were fired as two more youngsters ran by us, one with a handkerchief over his face while the other had on a hat drawn down to cover his. Both were slender and tall and they ran in the direction the man went. The fence rattled some more and we heard screaming and a cry for help, then more shots rang out followed by complete silence.

The gate rattled and the tall, skinny chap ran through the gate.

Georgie and I ran inside the house mere seconds before the two men walked cautiously back through the front gate, guns in tow. Later that morning, after the police came, the body of a man was found in the alley behind the house riddled with bullets. It was the same man who ran by us. He was from a neighbouring community and alleged to have been member of a rival gang. It was said to be a reprisal killing, at least that was how it was reported in the media.

Mom came home disheartened that day, not only because of the age of the young man but because this time, the dead had a name and a recognisable face. The murder had hit home as it was the grandson of a church sister. Mother decided then and there that Bramble Pen was nowhere to grow her son, not the doctor that she wanted. "Kevin, we can't stay here. Tings getting bad now. Dem soon start draw people out of dem house," mother explained in a worried tone. I was disheartened. I knew I had no choice. We moved six weeks later.

It was particularly hard for me to leave considering that I had spent all my life in Bramble Pen. I had my friends and cousins there but even that could not overshadow the fact that I was leaving my best friend, Georgie.

It would be another 15 years before I ever saw Georgie again, and if parting wasn't hard enough our reunion proved to be even much more difficult.

Although I didn't become the doctor mother wanted I still had managed to do her proud. I was a sergeant in the Jamaica Constabulary Force. I was a member of the Criminal Investigation Branch and working on a series of armed robberies in a relatively quiet upper St Andrew community.

It happened one Saturday evening in September 2007. We were investigating a recent robbery at a home when another call came in about a robbery in progress. The officers were pinned down by heavily armed thugs in an area relatively close to where we were. With the description given of the weapons and the modus operandi, we deduced that these were the same men.

The perps immediately engaged us after we arrived on the scene and upon returning fire the band dispersed leaving their crony pinned between an old car and a wall. As my colleagues engaged the others, two squaddies and I approached the cornered man. After about ten minutes of exchange with him, he soon ran out and we found him suffering from a wound to his right leg.

There was something eerily familiar about him. His demeanour and face looked familiar and when we handcuffed him and put him in the back of the jeep, his eyes revealed his mystery. It was Georgie. "Georgie? Is you dat?" I enquired of the man who by this time had his head down when he realised I was staring too hard at him. He did not move or make even the slightest indication that he was being spoken to.

"Georgie?" I queried again. Slowly, the man lifted his head and our eyes made four. It was Georgie all right. I was suddenly overcome with a mixture of happiness and remorse. Georgie stared at me for a long time before turning away. I was unsure of what to do.

He had been my best friend and due to circumstances we were forced to break that friendship and it seemed that those same circumstances had led Georgie to turn to crime. I felt I had no business blaming him for that because I understood it all too well. At the time, I was torn; what do I do? We drove to the Kingston Public Hospital for Georgie to get treatment. On our way there, he began to speak to me. But even then, there was something eerie about his demeanour. I knew I had to take him to prison. It was my job, but somewhere along the line, I let my guard down.

We were just preparing for Georgie to be taken into surgery, to remove the fragment of bullet lodged in his leg. I had scarcely turned my back to speak with a doctor when screams rang out from behind me. Explosions were heard and I felt a burning sensation in my back. I spun around to face Georgie armed with a gun he managed to take from one of the squaddies. Our eyes made four once more and it hit home that I was no longer looking into the eyes of a friend or a brother, but a stone-cold killer. They were cold, hollow and lifeless. The last thing I remember was my face making contact with the floor. I lost consciousness thereafter.

Today as I sit staring at the graduates, I wonder how well prepared they are to take on the duties the Jamaica police force brings. I wonder if they will have the strength to take out one of their own who may find himself on the wrong side of the law. I wonder how many more will die at the hands of criminals nurtured by criminals like Georgie, the same individual who was able to find me years later crippled and wheelchair-bound to tell me to my face: "You should have killed me when you had the chance."

Georgie still wreaks havoc in the streets of Kingston.

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