He charged down Anlaby Road towards

the woman, grabbing the bag from her

arm as he bumped into her.

 

Unfortunately for him, the combination

of adrenalin, exertion, and whatever shit

he’d been smoking that morning

 

conspired to make him trip over and

plunge into the pavement. He hit the

ground with a thunk. A bloke with

 

a tattoo of a panther on his forearm

crossed the road and stepped on

his ankle to prevent him from

 

getting up. He didn’t to try fight; the

urge to escape had been knocked out

of him along with the wind. Even

 

though the bottom half of his head was

covered by a scarf, blood seeped through

and pooled on the ground. As the

 

crowd gathered, I heard someone say:

“I hope the little fucker loses a couple of

teeth.” The woman came over to

 

pick up her belongings. She didn’t appear

to be hurt or upset. As she put her things

back into the bag, she seemed to regard

 

the kid with a look of detached pity – the same

way you would look at a crippled pigeon as it

dragged its way out of the path of oncoming

 

traffic. After a morning of indecision, it decided

to rain, and the whole road seemed to sigh as

the sky opened  up. A bus went past

 

and the woman lit a cigarette, needing something

to do. A siren could be heard in the distance.

Nobody spoke. We waited for the police to turn up.