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him haven’t bothered to follow us. I’m in two minds about this. On the one hand, I’m glad that we no longer have to consider them; but on the other hand, I’m wondering if they are still hanging around Uncle Jack and Aunty Magaret’s place.
    I feel guilty and angry and ashamed all at the same time. I mean, these kids were about ten or eleven years old. Andy and me shouldn’t be running from the likes of them. In the natural order of things, they really ought to be wary of us. But the rules on estates like ours don’t follow any natural scheme. Remonstrate with kids like that, chase them off the way we ought to be able to and we’d have to watch our backs forever. You think I’m exaggerating? I told you about the Rogers family. Any perceived affront to one of them and you find you’re dealing with the whole pack of jackals. If one of the bigger ones were to see you on the street, you’d be praying for the speed of an Olympic champion. But that’s not the half of it. There’s a better than even chance that the criminally violent father of that festering brood, along with one or two of the older yobs in the family, would be at your house battering on your door before you knew it. And suddenly your whole family is at risk.
    But what I think is probably the worst of it is that every aspect of your life wouldbe ruined from that moment on. Like I say, I’m not exaggerating. What would happen is that the whelps from this pack of scum and their hangers-on would more than likely decide to hang out on the streets near to your house. Their foul language, yelling, and generally loutish behaviour would be stressful enough. But there would be the vandalism; the broken windows in the middle of the night; the damage to your car parked in the driveway. They’d be spilling into your garden, ripping out any plants and shrubs. You’d hear them in the middle of the night in your yard and you’d look out of your windows and they’d just look right back up at you and jeer their foul-mouthed, mocking invective. It would be loads of tiny little things. But it would be relentless. And they can keep this behaviour going, fuelled by alcohol and drugs, until you eventually break. Trust me, they will never tire of it. They’re too stupid to tire of it. And they’ll be enjoying it. Don’t ever forget that.
    So why not just call the police? Ha ha ha. Let’s not even go there. Life’s too short.
    Still, Andy and me, we’ve got a movie to see so we just keep walking, along the path and through The Gardens. Like I’ve said, it’s getting dark now, but we’re not worried about walking through here. And besides, we’d have to walk about half a mile more if we didn’t.
    â€˜Be good if somebody would just take the Rogers family out, wouldn’t it?’
    I think about this before I answer. I’m still unhappy with myself, to tell you the truth.
    â€˜You’d think they’d have enough enemies , wouldn’t you?’
    Andy doesn’t comment and we continue our unhurried trudge through The Gardens. We’re way out of sight of the roads now, and it’s getting even darker. As we round a corner, we can see the playground area off to our left. The slides and the swings and the climbing frames are brooding in the shadows like the skeleton frames of dinosaurs in the Natural History Museum. It’s way too late formums and toddlers to be here, so there’s no laughing and crying and squealing kids; no dreary single mums with their baby buggies, smoking on the benches. But there are a few older boys there, standing on the dark shale. There are about half a dozen of them, slouching around in that slovenly fashion that they must think is cool, and I can see wisps of grey smoke from the cigarettes or spliffs they’re smoking, and the red burning tips. We’re too far away for me to recognise who they are, but some are