one of these days .. . or be killed .. . and he slammed into his room and told me to mind my own fucking business."
“Maybe I should talk to him.”
"Would you, darling'? You know he listens to you. Just tell him I don't want him dead ... I'd rather see him in the nick than wrapped round a lamppost. At least that way he's got a chance of growing up and making something of his self “I'll do it tomorrow,” Melanie promised, 'soon as we're shot of the perverts."
Finder Street, Bassindale Estate WPC Hanson could hardly fail to notice the graffiti as she turned into Pinder Street. It was sprayed on to a blank wall at the end of the terrace in fluorescent yellows and pinks "Death to Pigs' and underneath was a cartoon representation of jointed trotters crossed in a Nazi swastika. It hadn't been there the day before and she forced herself to view it with detachment. It couldn't possibly be aimed at her.
She drew up outside number 121 and climbed out to have another crack at interviewing fifteen-year-old Wesley Barber about a snatch-and-run in the centre of town. It was a long shot. His MO fitted perfectly the target was an old woman coming out of the side door of the post office with her wallet, stuffed with her pension money, in her hand but the witness's description," beastly great black boy with staring eyes' wouldn't convince a magistrate that sweet-faced Wesley was the culprit.
The boy was educationally subnormal a juvenile psychopath on acid and meth, according to his head teacher who turned a blind eye to his truanting in order to keep him out of school but he had the face of a saint. Everyone despaired of him, including his mother, who spent most of her time on her knees in church, praying for a miracle. Also, he was never at home when the police came knocking, so the chances of the interview happening were poor.
Hanson heard yelling from the end of the street and looked up to see a gang of youths appear round the corner, wrestling with each other and hurling insults. She dropped her gaze hurriedly, afraid of sparking a confrontation, but the boys beat a hasty retreat when they spotted the police car. Even so, one of them shouted loudly enough for her to catch: "It's a tart on her own, for fuck's sake. We could take her easy."
She put a hand on the car door to steady herself and stared purposefully after the gang as if she were weighing options. She was terrified of Acid Row and always had been. She likened it to being afraid of dogs. You could follow all the rules about how to behave but if fear was the only emotion you experienced then fear was what the animals sensed. She'd tried to explain this once to her boss, and he'd slated her for it.
“You'll be spending more time on the Row than anywhere else,” he told her. "It's the nature of the job. If you can't hack it, then you'd better quit now, because I'll have your hide if you ever refer to those people as “animals” again."
She hadn't meant it that way. She used fear of dogs as an analogy, but her boss couldn't or wouldn't understand. She needed help, and the only help he gave her was to make her face her phobia every day. In three months she'd spent so much time alone on the Row that her fear had intensified into paranoia. She believed she was followed and watched every time she came here. She believed the youths hunted in packs with the specific intention of catching her unawares and unprotected. She also believed, like a typical paranoiac, that her boss was behind the conspiracy to destroy her. He always sent her out alone .. .
“There's that woman copper again,” said Wesley's mother, peering through the net curtains. “Are you going to talk to her this time?”
She knew he'd done something bad. She could always tell. Despite all her prayers, she knew in her heart there was no salvation for her son.
The pastor had told her he was on drugs, but she didn't believe that.
It was the Evil One had hold of Wesley, just as He had hold of Wesley's
“Maybe I should talk to him.”
"Would you, darling'? You know he listens to you. Just tell him I don't want him dead ... I'd rather see him in the nick than wrapped round a lamppost. At least that way he's got a chance of growing up and making something of his self “I'll do it tomorrow,” Melanie promised, 'soon as we're shot of the perverts."
Finder Street, Bassindale Estate WPC Hanson could hardly fail to notice the graffiti as she turned into Pinder Street. It was sprayed on to a blank wall at the end of the terrace in fluorescent yellows and pinks "Death to Pigs' and underneath was a cartoon representation of jointed trotters crossed in a Nazi swastika. It hadn't been there the day before and she forced herself to view it with detachment. It couldn't possibly be aimed at her.
She drew up outside number 121 and climbed out to have another crack at interviewing fifteen-year-old Wesley Barber about a snatch-and-run in the centre of town. It was a long shot. His MO fitted perfectly the target was an old woman coming out of the side door of the post office with her wallet, stuffed with her pension money, in her hand but the witness's description," beastly great black boy with staring eyes' wouldn't convince a magistrate that sweet-faced Wesley was the culprit.
The boy was educationally subnormal a juvenile psychopath on acid and meth, according to his head teacher who turned a blind eye to his truanting in order to keep him out of school but he had the face of a saint. Everyone despaired of him, including his mother, who spent most of her time on her knees in church, praying for a miracle. Also, he was never at home when the police came knocking, so the chances of the interview happening were poor.
Hanson heard yelling from the end of the street and looked up to see a gang of youths appear round the corner, wrestling with each other and hurling insults. She dropped her gaze hurriedly, afraid of sparking a confrontation, but the boys beat a hasty retreat when they spotted the police car. Even so, one of them shouted loudly enough for her to catch: "It's a tart on her own, for fuck's sake. We could take her easy."
She put a hand on the car door to steady herself and stared purposefully after the gang as if she were weighing options. She was terrified of Acid Row and always had been. She likened it to being afraid of dogs. You could follow all the rules about how to behave but if fear was the only emotion you experienced then fear was what the animals sensed. She'd tried to explain this once to her boss, and he'd slated her for it.
“You'll be spending more time on the Row than anywhere else,” he told her. "It's the nature of the job. If you can't hack it, then you'd better quit now, because I'll have your hide if you ever refer to those people as “animals” again."
She hadn't meant it that way. She used fear of dogs as an analogy, but her boss couldn't or wouldn't understand. She needed help, and the only help he gave her was to make her face her phobia every day. In three months she'd spent so much time alone on the Row that her fear had intensified into paranoia. She believed she was followed and watched every time she came here. She believed the youths hunted in packs with the specific intention of catching her unawares and unprotected. She also believed, like a typical paranoiac, that her boss was behind the conspiracy to destroy her. He always sent her out alone .. .
“There's that woman copper again,” said Wesley's mother, peering through the net curtains. “Are you going to talk to her this time?”
She knew he'd done something bad. She could always tell. Despite all her prayers, she knew in her heart there was no salvation for her son.
The pastor had told her he was on drugs, but she didn't believe that.
It was the Evil One had hold of Wesley, just as He had hold of Wesley's
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