I refer to them as kids when I tell him of the ones I see roaming about town at 3.30 am. They’re not kids they’re adults, but they seem young to me in their recklessness, their drunkenness and their noise. This morning was no exception, in fact they were more present than ever. Most are visitors, I think. They talk loudly, seemingly unaware of the sleepers in the houses and flats that they walk past. At the end of Mill Street where it joins Bridge Street a group of maybe 10 or 12 lads had gathered. I felt the threat of them. Was there going to be a fight? I heard one Birmingham accent and another lad (all were white) called another ‘bro’. There was much posturing, a bigging-up of shoulders. They made a square then a circle. It was like a dance or a choreography from West Side Story. There was even a kind of uniform – all wore dark colours, mostly black, with t shirt sleeves rolled up. Neat, taut and aggressive. Nothing happened. There was a peace-keeper in their midst. M was sitting in his stockinged feet outside the block of flats watching them. I no longer greet him. There is no point he looks straight through me. Bless him. A troubled man, I think.
Some days I wake and I do not know what or who I am. It lingers. All I can do then is focus on details. The floors are now mopped. And the sun comes.
