Brute Force

50

We lay huddled for two, maybe three hours. I wasn't sure and I couldn't be arsed to expose any skin to the cold to check my watch.

The sound of adolescent voices came from over to our left, full of fucks and shits, getting louder as they approached.

There was only room for one of us right behind the bins. I motioned for Lynn to make himself scarce. He shuffled backwards, dragging his bundle with him.

The shouts and laughter came closer, until one of them stopped no more than a few feet away. 'Hold on . . .'

I looked up at him.

'Oi, mate, get a fucking job.' I was treated to a fourteen-year-old's sneer from beneath a grey hoodie. I'd have had mine up too, if I'd had one.

Four of his mates gathered round to share the entertainment. More hoodies, baggy jeans, trainers. It was obviously a big night out.

'You a mether, or what?'

They crowded round the gap between the bins.

I wasn't going to get up just yet. There wasn't any need.

'No, mate. I'm just here, that's all.'

I thought of myself at their age, doing exactly the same as they were, always in a gang. The only difference was the clothes. These lads were much better dressed.

They were just bored, with no job prospects apart from serving up fries or stacking shelves. No wonder they were roaming about, trying out phone boxes for cash, not going out to do anything specific – if it was there they'd do it. Climb through the window of a house if it was open; try a few car doors. Anything to show the rest of the pack they were one of them. If you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose.

Even their faces were the same as those around me when I was a kid. Black, white, Indian, mixed. On a housing estate, colour doesn't matter. Everyone's in the same shit. Everyone's parents are unemployed. Everyone's on benefits. Everyone's in the dustbin. Even dogs think the flats are interchangeable.

Another one shouted, 'Oi, mate . . .'

It was a white lad this time. I could just make out a chin full of zits under his hoodie. 'You got any fags? Give us a fag.'

A couple of them were getting a bit restless. It was time to stand up. Pack mentality: they were starting to think about other things than just taking the piss. I could feel it. I'd done it myself.

'No, mate. I don't smoke. Can't afford 'em.'

These lads were getting more confident.

'Yeah, but you're on the dole, aintcha? You're getting money, aintcha?'

'A little.'

I knew what was coming. The zit-faced one whipped out a blade. 'Fucking give us it then.'

There was no point debating this. I stepped forward and grabbed his hand and bent his palm back towards his forearm. My momentum gave me more power in my grip, and he went down, more with surprise than pain.

The knife clattered to the ground. The others did a kind of war dance, ready to have a go but not sure what to do now one of them was down. But one of them would, eventually.

Zit-face lay there in shock. I folded the knife and put it in my pocket. 'OK, lads, now just fuck off.'

'Cunt!' The first black lad made his move. He aimed a kick at me, but wasn't fast enough. I grabbed his leg and pulled him towards me, at the same time kicking down hard on the calf muscle of his standing leg. He fell onto his back.

The others shouted, 'You cunt!' but no one else was in a hurry to make the mistake he had.

I held onto his leg. I had to do something short, sharp and drastic to stop this from escalating. I stamped down on the side of his knee. I wasn't going to break it; just give him the worst pain he'd ever experienced. He howled like a wounded animal.

'Now fuck off.'

I let go of his leg and put my hand in my pocket. I threw about £50 at Zit-face but kept my eyes on the rest of them, just in case.

'You've got to watch what you're doing, lads. Don't take things at face value. Someone else might have got hold of that knife and jammed it in one of your necks. One or two of you would have been down and dead – just over a few fucking quid. You've got to start switching yourselves on . . .'

I gave the two lads on the floor a tap, letting them know it was OK to get up.

'Take the money, go and get pissed, do whatever, just fuck off and let me get my head down.'

They did. They took the money and ran – all except the black lad, who hobbled. He'd be all right. I watched them disappear back the way they'd come, pausing occasionally to turn and shout at me in an effort to regain some dignity. 'You cunt! You fucking mad man wanker!'

They faded into the darkness and eventually their shouts were drowned by traffic.

Lynn emerged from behind the bins. 'Next time I stay on show. Safety in numbers . . .'

'With your accent? Red rag to a bull. But there won't be a next time. We're moving round the corner. They might go and get pissed with my cash and come back with a gun. Come on.'

As he gathered up his stuff, I did my bit for the environment. I recycled the knife into the empty-can skip.

We went and dug ourselves in behind the not-so-trendy skips, the ones filled with actual rubbish and shite from Tesco. Lynn had had at least one new life experience today, an encounter with hoodie culture. He might be about to have his second, coming face to face with a real rat.

It was time to think about the next phase. 'So anyway, what are they wearing round Genoa this time of the year?'

He gave it some thought. 'It'll be fairly mild, but still cold. Smart coats mostly, but you'll get away with a ski jacket. A lot of people head for the Alps at the weekend.'

'OK, we'll buy some gear in the morning. But we won't wear it yet – we'll take the bags to the airport. We'll travel separately, take a shower, then come out in our new gear. Throw away your old clothes in dribs and drabs around the terminal. Don't try to force big bundles into a bin – remember the CCTV.'