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a few kids round here. They are in their seventies now, but they still look after their house and garden, and I know that the little car is their pride and joy. They bought it brand new the day after Uncle Jack retired. I’ve been out in it with them many times as a little kid, squeezed into the back seat and listening to kid-crap songs on the cassette that Aunty Margaret used to keep in the glove compartment. Happy times, I guess.
    A thump, the sound of rock on metal, makes Andy and me turn our heads. There are two kids using the little Nissan as cover, and from behind the burned out garage three other kids are gathering rocks to throw at them. I recognise all these kids. They are about ten and eleven years old. The two hiding behind the car are laughing as the rocks come flying at them. All I can think is that the poor little car is going to be scratched and dented. Maybe worse.
    A rock goes way beyond the car and smashes against the red brick wall of the house. I feel that I should do something, put a stop to this before there is serious damage, but the fact is I do nothing. I just watch it all going on as I walk on by. You just can’t afford to get involved in anything like this; everyone knows that. And one of the three bastards behind the garage I recognise. It’s Derek Rogers, and the Rogers family are trouble. There seem to be loads of them living in a house that they’ve made squalid even by the unkempt standards of a lot of the houses on this estate. And they are criminals. Every foul-mouthed stinking one of them. They are noisy, drunken, and clannish to a degree you can barely imagine. To even look askance at one of them is to challenge the whole rotten pack. The mother alone has been inside a few times in the past for theft and the fat ugly sow of a woman sports more tattoos than a San Quentin lifer. The kids all look the same, and they have these slitty eyes so that you can’t help feeling that there’s some inbreeding going on. Doesn’t bear thinking about. It’s just like that film,
Deliverance
. Needless to say,disorderly conduct is not a criminal charge to this lot; it’s a lifestyle choice. Do I even have to mention that they are brutal and violent? So, however much it’s breaking my heart to see these little scumbags hurting Uncle Jack and Aunty Margaret’s car like that, my cowardly instinct for self-preservation has won over. I feel sick and I want to cry. I’m not kidding.
    What makes it all worse somehow is the knowledge that it’s not personal. Not yet. These kids have nothing against Uncle Jack and Aunty Margaret. It’s just unfortunate that this is where their selfish thoughtless anti-social stupid game has brought them. So you really ought to be able to just tell them to clear off, right? What should it matter where they go to make their mischief? But what is really terrible is that it
will
get personal if Uncle Jack and Aunty Margaret step outside to remonstrate with them. I’m praying that they don’t. I’m really praying hard. For their sake.
    I notice the curtains twitch. Please don’t come out, please don’t come out. Uncle Jackand Aunty Margaret don’t realise that it’s a jungle out there. Another clang of rock against metal. I look to where the rock has come from and Derek Rogers is looking right at me.
    â€˜What the fuck are you looking at?’
    I’m not going to answer that whatever you might think of me, and neither is Andy. Next thing you know, Rogers and the kids with him are hurling rocks over at us. And we’re putting our arms up as shields and we’re running as the foul language and bricks follow us down the road, unmindful of the couple of cars that pass in both directions. These drivers must be local; they know better than to stop. Then soon enough we’ve left the foul kids and the rocks behind and we’re turning into The Gardens. Rogers and the goblins that trail around with