culture clash

The kid had a bullet shaven head. He was not big. He had a sort of runty meanness to him. He wore a black bomber jacket and Doc Martins.

The kid used to hang out by the Buttercross, looking for trouble. He’d done time for beating someone up. One day one of the posh kids caught his eye and he glared at him. The face stuck.

A while later he spotted the posh kid walking through the cathedral close. The shaven haired kid fell in behind him, stalking his prey.

Then the prey did an unusual thing. Rather than fleeing, rather than just hoping he went away, the posh kid turned and faced him.

It was a violently cold afternoon.

The posh kid said: Come on then. He didn’t say it with menace. He said: If you want to hit me, you might as well do it. Come on. Let’s get it over with.

The kid didn’t quite know what to say. He asked the posh kid what he was on about. The posh kid said that was the only reason he could be following him like that. He acknowledged he wouldn’t stand a chance in a fight. So he said they might as well get on with it.

The kid in the bomber jacket was wrong footed. He said: I wasn’t going to.

As soon as he’d said it he lost the will to hurt the posh kid.

The posh kid looked like he didn’t believe him.

There wasn’t anything more to do or say. The posh kid looked scared, but he wasn’t acting scared. The kid had had enough. He told the posh kid to fuck off. Then he walked away across the close.

The next time he got picked up, he knew in his mind who’d done it. Who’d spoken to the police. It was the posh kid. The one he hadn’t touched. Next time he saw him, he’d do it right. Only he never did.