Cath Staincliffe - Stone Cold Red Hot

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.

A gust of wind stirred the curtains opposite.

“Clear off,” shouted Mr Poole, his voice rich with fury, “clear off.” His jowls shuddered as he yelled. “You’ve done enough damage.”

A few curses then the group began to play with the ball in the middle of the street.

“Shocking,” said Pauline, “brass-necked cheek, they’ve no decency.”

Mr Poole turned away. “I’ll ring emergency repairs,” he said, “they’ll need that boarding up tonight.” He went through to his phone.

I went back to the doorway and stood there staring at the gang while they had their kickabout. I hoped to discomfort them. There was little reaction though I caught a few obscenities which I was sure were for my benefit. There was no sign of the police.

A private hire car came down from the main road and tooted at the boys who took their time to edge out of the way. The car drove down the Close to turn and drew up outside Mr Poole’s. “There’s a taxi here”, I called.

“That’s ours. Be seeing you Frank.” The women came to the door.

“I’d ring the police again you know,” said Mary, “they don’t always come unless you pester them.”

They said goodbye and walked slowly to their taxi.

Mr Poole came back out. “They shouldn’t be long, the repairs.”

“I thought they always took forever.”

“Not the emergencies. It’s the rest that’s a problem. They’ll board that up tonight but it might be months before they get round to replacing the glass.”

“Mary said I should ring the police again.”

He nodded. “Can’t hurt.”

I dialled and got put through to the same man.

“I rang fifteen minutes ago and no-one’s arrived yet.”

“They should be there soon, there’s no immediate danger is there? Things haven’t escalated?”

“Well, no.”

The lads were heading the ball now. Still outside the Ibrahims’ but not directing their attention at their victims at present.

“It’s a volatile situation though,” I said. “The people in the house must be absolutely petrified. There’s children in there. The police need to move these youths away before they do anything else.”

“There’s a car in the area,” he said, “should be with you soon.”

By my watch it took a further seventeen minutes before the white squad car appeared. During that time the Brennan twins nipped down home for some cans of lager and brought them back along with a large spliff which the four of them shared. When the car came into view the lads moved closer together on the opposite pavement. The car stopped beside them and the two occupants, a man and a woman got out. I couldn’t hear what was being said but it seemed very light-hearted. The twins were grinning and at one point the whole group laughed aloud. The police turned away and crossed over to join Mr Poole and I by his gate.

“Mr Poole.” The man was older than Carl Benson, the policeman who’d come out the previous time, he moved languidly as though he was experiencing gravity differently from the rest of us. “Miss Kilkenny.” He nodded at me. “PC Doyle.” He turned his head slowly to the woman at his side, “WPC Gilmartin. You reported the incident?”

He was grinning nearly all the time, nodding his head to some slow beat. He reminded me of a Jack Nicholson character, all lazy amusement and hidden menace. I wondered if he were stoned, his eyes were glassy, lids drooping a bit. Maybe he’d had a long shift.

“Seems like a little horseplay got out of hand. I’ve had a word with the lads and…”

“Hang about,” interrupted Mr Poole, “it’s not horseplay. This lot are terrorising that family. The council and the police know all about it. Your lot have been called out here countless times these last few weeks.”

He went on to outline all the forms the harassment had taken. PC Doyle didn’t like being corrected. The grin faded, was replaced by a pained frown and he looked to the sky while Mr Poole spoke. A belittling gesture. His colleague was doing her best to be invisible. She neither spoke nor even watched what was going on. Feet close together, eyes down, she rocked now and again lightly on her heels and waited.

When Mr Poole finished Doyle grinned again. “I’ve made a note of the incident, it’s been recorded.”

“Aren’t you going to see Mrs Ahmed?” I demanded. “Reassure her?”

“Mrs Ahmed?” He gave a little extra weight to the name, very subtle but enough to signal that he was a bigot too. “Mrs Ahmed doesn’t speak any English.”

“I still think you should show her you’re here. We can tell her the window will be boarded up tonight.”

He sighed. His eyes flicked to me then away. They looked hard, reptilian. He turned and walked in a slow roll over to the house followed at a distance by the WPC, Mr Poole and myself. The gang still hovered round the gateway. Why hadn’t he sent them away? He banged on the door hard four times and shouted ‘Police’. He sounded like he was going to launch a raid on the place not reassure a frightened citizen. There was no response. Surprise, surprise.

I went up to join him. As I passed the youths one of them made sucking noises.

PC Doyle banged again. “Police.”

I spoke too. Maybe a woman’s voice would be less threatening. After all how did Mrs Ahmed know whether this wasn’t yet more aggro from the gang, a trap set to get her to open the door?