Battered & Bruised

I don't want to harp on too much about the vicious underclass, but the synchronicity of events on Monday night is too startling to ignore.

After writing my previous post, I decided to put the rubbish bins out, ready for collection on Tuesday morning. It was after 2 am, raining and I was dressed in just my shorts and t-shirt. Never mind. I needed a breath of fresh air, or at least what passes for fresh air in the city. It was then that the vicious underclass presented its work for my critical inspection.

As I stood breathing in the damp air I heard a voice coming towards me. "Excuse me!" Uh-oh. There are only two groups of people who initiate a conversation with a stranger at 2 am with the words excuse me. Firstly there are the pissheads begging for busfare (which in the early hours of the morning is a non-starter, and therefore means they belong to the second group). The second group are the muggers. I didn't want to engage in a conversation with either group.

I ignored the shout and turned towards my front door. "Excuse me," he called again. "Can I use your phone please?" This was at least a novel way of attempting to gain entry to my house without resorting to threats. "No!" I called back cheerfully, about to shut the door.

"Please, I need help. Can I use your phone?" There was a note of genuine desperation in the way he said it. "Shit", I thought under my breath, knowing I was probably getting into something I'd rather not. A young guy was hurrying across the road. He was stripped to the waist, a blue cotton shirt in his hand. The left side of his face was hideously bruised and swollen so that his eye was just a bleeding slit. His lips were badly split and bleeding. It looked like he'd recently been administered a double dose of botox. The shirt was soaked in blood where he had tried to clean himself up.

"What's happened?" I asked, even though I could plainly see that he'd just been on the receiving end of a bloody good kicking. "I've been jumped on. Can I use your phone?" he winced. It happens to young guys quite a lot. That much I know from personal experience. Still, despite his condition I wasn't going to chance asking him into the house.

I asked him if he wanted the police or an ambulance. No, he just needed to make a phone call. Ordering him to stay where he was, I ducked back inside to grab my mobile. When I came out he was standing there shivering. "You haven't called the police have you?" he asked ernestly. I assured him that I had not. "Cos these blokes would kill me if you got the police involved. They'd stab me." He gave a nervous laugh as he indicated a knife being plunged into his ribs.

I asked him where the beating had occured. "Round there", he jerked his head in the direction of the council estate, dabbing at his traumatised eye with the soiled shirt. "Tell me if you see anybody coming. They're bad people. They'd definately do something to your house or your car if they saw you talking to me." He was still breathing heavily and glanced about nervously to see if anyone had followed him. Instinctively I did the same, expecting a group of lumbering thugs to march round the corner at any moment.

He was fumbling with his own mobile phone now. I fleetingly wondered why he needed to use my phone when he had his own. I decided he must be out of credit. After a couple of minutes fumbling he handed the phone to me, asking me to look up the number of his girlfriend, Melissa. He could no longer see out of his left eye and was feeling dizzy. I keyed the number into my phone and handed it over. "You hold onto mine until I'm finished, just so you don't think I'm gonna be a dick and nick your phone. I'm just going over here", he said moving a few yards away for privacy.

When he was done, he came over and explained that he had wanted to warn his girlfriend, in case his assailants paid her a visit, as she would be alone with her small child. She would presumably now be alone and dreading her front door bursting open under the kicks from large Dr Martens, but I didn't mention it.

He apologised for inconveniencing me and I assured him that it was nothing. Then he asked if I could call a taxi so he could get home. As I dialled the number, I wondered whether any sane taxi driver would allow this bloody mess into his sickly-sweet air-freshened car. And if they did, would he have any money for the fare? We would have to cross that bridge if and when it arose.

As we stood waiting for the taxi I picked up a few more details about what had happened. He was just a kid, eighteen years old. He knew his attacker, who was a few years older. "He said something bad about my mother," he shrugged, then added sheepishly "you know how it is when you're young and stupid, you just react." Clearly reacting hadn't been the wisest move.

"Have you just bought your house?" he asked. "A couple of years ago," I replied. He looked perplexed. "Have you got a family?" Again I answered in the affirmative. Kirsty and the cats are my family. The kids' response surprised me. "Get away from here," he said firmly. "Just sell up and get away as soon as you can. This is no place to have a family. It's terrible around here." He sounded so jaded and old beyond his years. I quietly agreed. "I can tell from your accent you're not from around here," he went on. Again I was surprised, because I'd been putting on my best Geordie to reassure him that I could be trusted. "You need to get away from here," he added again quietly. "So do you," I thought to myself.

We talked for a few minutes more, during which he frequently apologised and hoped I didn't think he was just a dick. I learned that his father had recently come out of prison after six years. He thought his dad would probably want to take revenge. I silently nodded my agreement. It's what you expect from the criminal classes, isn't it?

He went on to tell me with a note of certainty in his voice, that his father would probably want to reward me, and that I should look out for an envelope through the letterbox, with "a couple of grand in it." I thought this was probably a bit unlikely, but nevertheless smiled and reassured him that no reward was necessary. However, he was insistant.

"I'm sick of this happening!" he burst out suddenly. Had it happened before I enquired? Four or five times. Each time they went for his eye. It was his weak spot since it had been damaged the first time. I told him that I hoped he was okay, and that he should get it checked out by a doctor.

Eventually he must have caught sight of me sneeking a look at my watch. He apologised once more for disturbing me. "I can see you're in your shorts," he said. "I'll just go up there and wait for the taxi. I don't want anyone seeing me hanging around outside your house." As he moved off, he reminded me to look out for that envelope containing my reward.

I went back into the house and switched off the lights. A few minutes later I heard a car outside pulling away.

I fretted for a while. I know I should have brought the kid in and patched up his injuries, but however sincere he might have seemed, I'm cynical enough not to risk bringing a total stranger into my house at 2:20 am. I hope he made it home.

The whole episode seemed so tragic. The kid clearly wasn't stupid. I would even go so far as to say he seemed fairly astute. But growing up whilst your violent father does time is never going to give you the best start in life. Then you hang around with "friends" and aquaintances who will regularly beat the crap out of you, perhaps even kill you. You're only eighteen but your girlfriend is mother to another mans child.

The real irony is that he knows the situation he is in. He knows he lives in a terrible area and that his life is at risk. He expects his father to go back to prison. In all probability he'll soon be in nick himself or else dead in the street somewhere. If he's really lucky he'll end up in a soul-destroying menial job, perhaps stuck in a miserable marriage to Melissa, struggling to raise a clutch of kids of his own.

He should get out now, leave his friends, his girlfriend, family. Leave the whole sickening mess behind and make a life for himself. But he won't. Although he is totally wise to his situation he can't break free. No more than an animal could break free from its herd and strike out on its own. That's the nature of the tragic, vicious underclass. No hope. No future.