Mr Poole brought me some tea. “I thought what had happened on Friday would be enough to convince the council.”
“It may be but they’re waiting for the lawyer’s say-so.”
He grunted, not impressed and told me to call him if I needed anything.
I looked back at the house opposite. The football slammed against the door and bounced back. How did the Ibrahim children react to the bombardment? Could they sleep? Did they have nightmares and wet the bed? Did they huddle under the covers trying to shut out the noise? What would Mrs Ahmed do? Try and keep life normal: bedtime now, brush your teeth, I’ll tell you a story. Or did she gather them all together, ready for another night’s siege, snuggled on the sofa with the video turned up loud playing the Lion King or Jungle Book.
After five minutes or so a man came from the bottom of the road, climbed into the van and drove off. I zoomed in and got a head shot of each of the twins. I couldn’t tell them apart; only different coloured sweatshirts marked one from the other. Black and red. I panned round to take in Micky Whittaker with the bulldog tattoo on his skull and the fourth boy who wore a Manchester United cap backwards and had a close cropped beard on his chin. None of the boys wore coats in spite of the incessant drizzle. The kicking continued, they concentrated on the lounge window. Thump, thump, thump. They took turns to kick, keeping the rhythm up like footballers in training. At last a powerful kick from Micky Whittaker smashed the window. I filmed their jubilation as they leapt into each others arms and crowded round Whittaker. There was no sign of anyone inside the house. I used my mobile phone to call the police.
I reported malicious damage and threatening behaviour. I gave the location and my name. I pulled back the zoom till I had a general view of the scene and left the camera running.
Mr Poole was already opening the front door as I came downstairs. Mary and Pauline were in the hall in their hats and coats.
“They’ve smashed the window,” I told him, “I’ve called the police.”
The group were by the gate lighting cigarettes.
“What do you think you’re playing at?” Mr Poole demanded. “The council can take you to court for breaking stuff like that.”
“Oooh, I’m scared,” minced Whittaker. “Not.”
“They’re not gonna do ‘owt for a fuckin’ broken winder, are they?” One of the twins spoke.
“Was an accident, anyway,” his brother added.
