I hated them. I wanted to silence them, kick their stupid, racist heads in. Not a civilised response, I know, just a gut reaction.
Next time, if there had to be a next time, I’d leave the window ajar to catch more of what they were saying.
I heard a movement behind me – Mr Poole opening the door. He’d had the sense to turn the landing light out.
“I’ve spotted Brennan and the twins and Whittaker and his boy. There’s another lad as well, shaved head, overweight?”
“Bunter, that’s what they call him. Darren is his real name. He lives next door but one. He’s a bit slow. They lead him on, that lot, take advantage of him and he gets into trouble. He doesn’t understand half of what’s going on – just wants to be part of the gang. Grown men.” I heard him sigh. “What, on god’s earth, makes them do this?” Frustration strained his voice.
The songs and the chants went on, more cans were consumed. The empty ones were hurled at the house, the group cheered whenever a window was hit. They repeatedly went up and kicked the front door.
“I’m going to ring the police now,” I said to Mr Poole, “I don’t want it to get any worse.”
It took the police twenty minutes to arrive. In the meantime I filmed Darren peeing against the Ibrahim’s door, egged on by the others who cheered when he’d finished. I was shaking, my teeth gritted shut. Where was Mrs Ahmed and her three children? Settled in the kitchen as far as possible from the threats at the front? Could she get the children off to sleep and sit and listen alone? Or did she put the telly on to drown them out; try and follow the stories from the images, the babble of English hard for her to understand? Did the shouts and thumps bring back the horrors she had lived through in Somalia, swamping her with fear making her hands shake and her mouth dry? How did she cope?
“Get a chair next time,” yelled Brennan, “do it through the letterbox.”
“She might suck it for yer,” roared Whittaker.
The group howled with laughter. The twins made wanking motions with their fists. Where were the bloody police?
At last the squad car appeared and as it drove down the Close the gang became quiet. They moved nearer together, ribaldry over.
The police got out of the car. I kept filming. Brennan greeted one of them by name. “Alright, Benny.” He said there’d been reports of a disturbance. Innocent faces were pulled.
“Carl Benson,” Mr Poole whispered, referring to the younger policeman, “local lad.”
