cornered me upstairs at a party; he was drunk, nasty and much stronger than me. As he tore my dress and threw me on to the coats that layered the bed, I kicked out, smashing a lamp and a vase, making enough noise to frighten him off. A third time when I did a charity parachute jump for the drop-in centre. Ten thousand feet and terror had me screaming for every single one of them. Kissing death. Came away with my legs soft, my whole self shaken. Safe, but the thrill almost killed me.
I catch the eye of one of them, not that I am looking for eye contact. I know, after all my years of working with young people, that in a potentially violent situation prolonged eye contact translates as a challenge. He is not a big lad. Like the others he has masked his face, but his eyes are there; clear. And in them a look: hungry, elated. I am so frightened. My teeth are so tight they might shatter. There is a big gang of them and in that pause I think: is this how it goes? Is this how I die? Here, on this stupid day, with these raggedy-arsed kids?
The only sound is sirens looping round the city and I feel my belly twist. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I think maybe something bad is going to kick off cos she’s just sitting there and she’s not one of us. There’s maybe fifteen of us stopped. I got my pulse bumping in my throat.
Then the spell is broken. One of them moves; I see a blur, a trainer, trackie bottoms, hear the curse. His foot connects with my arm and a bolt of pain shoots up into my neck. Another kick to my ribs and I cry out. A third blow.
I feel Stella next to me, looking at me, like I’m supposed to know how to react. There’s this fizzing inside me, like the top of the roller coaster when you’re scared but it’s amazing too and I feel a bit sick with it. The woman yelps and another lad boots her.
The boy, the little of his face I can see, flushes as another one kicks me. Excitement or discomfort? I see a flicker in his eyes, a flicker of shame I think, but he doesn’t say anything or make a move to diffuse the situation. I can hear myself babbling, tears in my throat: please, please don’t, please. I want to shout, ‘I am not the enemy.’
She’s trying not to cry, but her face is all shaky. Then there’s this new sound above us, sudden: wacca-wacca-wacca. The helicopter, out of nowhere, swinging low, the vibrations thumping right through me, in my guts. And we jib, running fast, legging it down the back of the bus station to Cross Street. There’s glass strewn everywhere, glittering like diamonds. Shop doors hanging off, shutters torn up, one place with windows peeled back in a single sheet. It’s a war zone and, for long enough, our side’s winning. Someone should’ve broken into the Big Wheel, got it cranked up. Imagine that, us all climbing high above the city, looking out at all we have taken.
Things get heavier after that. They’re on horses now, like at the football – I only went once; at ninety quid a pop they’re taking the mick. I’m on £51.85 a week and I have to give some of that to my mum cos they’ve messed up her claim, just stopped her disability, so she got a crisis loan after a load of argument but she’ll have to pay that back when it’s sorted. The housing are on her back too about arrears, so she’ll be fined for that and none of it’s her fault. She practically lives at Citizens Advice. I’d nick something for her, but she’d go all godly on me.
Later on, it gets dark and it’s still not raining and we’ve been running and ducking and diving. Everyone’s starving, too, but there’s a Tesco Express ripped open and that sorts us out. All the fags have long gone, and the booze. Jonny points out that someone’s skanked the alcohol-free lager as well and that cracks us up.
Coxie gets nicked. He’s being cocky – that’s how he got his name. The 5-0, there’s more of them now and they’re not shy any more. But he wants some drink and we’re racing down
I catch the eye of one of them, not that I am looking for eye contact. I know, after all my years of working with young people, that in a potentially violent situation prolonged eye contact translates as a challenge. He is not a big lad. Like the others he has masked his face, but his eyes are there; clear. And in them a look: hungry, elated. I am so frightened. My teeth are so tight they might shatter. There is a big gang of them and in that pause I think: is this how it goes? Is this how I die? Here, on this stupid day, with these raggedy-arsed kids?
The only sound is sirens looping round the city and I feel my belly twist. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I think maybe something bad is going to kick off cos she’s just sitting there and she’s not one of us. There’s maybe fifteen of us stopped. I got my pulse bumping in my throat.
Then the spell is broken. One of them moves; I see a blur, a trainer, trackie bottoms, hear the curse. His foot connects with my arm and a bolt of pain shoots up into my neck. Another kick to my ribs and I cry out. A third blow.
I feel Stella next to me, looking at me, like I’m supposed to know how to react. There’s this fizzing inside me, like the top of the roller coaster when you’re scared but it’s amazing too and I feel a bit sick with it. The woman yelps and another lad boots her.
The boy, the little of his face I can see, flushes as another one kicks me. Excitement or discomfort? I see a flicker in his eyes, a flicker of shame I think, but he doesn’t say anything or make a move to diffuse the situation. I can hear myself babbling, tears in my throat: please, please don’t, please. I want to shout, ‘I am not the enemy.’
She’s trying not to cry, but her face is all shaky. Then there’s this new sound above us, sudden: wacca-wacca-wacca. The helicopter, out of nowhere, swinging low, the vibrations thumping right through me, in my guts. And we jib, running fast, legging it down the back of the bus station to Cross Street. There’s glass strewn everywhere, glittering like diamonds. Shop doors hanging off, shutters torn up, one place with windows peeled back in a single sheet. It’s a war zone and, for long enough, our side’s winning. Someone should’ve broken into the Big Wheel, got it cranked up. Imagine that, us all climbing high above the city, looking out at all we have taken.
Things get heavier after that. They’re on horses now, like at the football – I only went once; at ninety quid a pop they’re taking the mick. I’m on £51.85 a week and I have to give some of that to my mum cos they’ve messed up her claim, just stopped her disability, so she got a crisis loan after a load of argument but she’ll have to pay that back when it’s sorted. The housing are on her back too about arrears, so she’ll be fined for that and none of it’s her fault. She practically lives at Citizens Advice. I’d nick something for her, but she’d go all godly on me.
Later on, it gets dark and it’s still not raining and we’ve been running and ducking and diving. Everyone’s starving, too, but there’s a Tesco Express ripped open and that sorts us out. All the fags have long gone, and the booze. Jonny points out that someone’s skanked the alcohol-free lager as well and that cracks us up.
Coxie gets nicked. He’s being cocky – that’s how he got his name. The 5-0, there’s more of them now and they’re not shy any more. But he wants some drink and we’re racing down
Similar Books
