Marcus Taylor tapped Olemwu and Parker on the arm and motioned towards a figure approaching them.  He was at least six inches smaller than any of the boys, perhaps a couple of years older than them at around twenty years of age, wearing glasses and hair cut short with a side parting.  He was chatting on a mobile, seemingly oblivious to their presence until he was on top of them.  The man stopped when he noticed the three boys and made eye contact for a brief moment, then haltingly walked on past them, keeping them in his peripheral vision.

Olemwu was the first to react.  “You looking at me, cunt?”

The man carried on walking, his pace quickening, and the boys trotted to catch up.  As they got within ten feet of him he took off through a gate and into the park.  The three boys followed, chasing him into the darkness.  He had on a light brown jacket and that helped them keep him in view, but they didn’t seem to be gaining.  As they ran three abreast, the two on the flanks were suddenly confronted by figures dressed entirely in black, who seemed to rise out of the ground barely five feet in front of them.  Their momentum carried them towards the men, who took a step to the side and swung baseball bats, catching the boys in the chest.  Ribs cracked and they dropped likes sacks of cement.

Neither had managed to get out a cry, but Olemwu had heard the bats striking, as had the man he was chasing.  Both stopped, and the man in the brown jacket turned and started walking purposefully towards him, placing his glasses in a protective case.  Despite the height advantage there was something menacing in the slight figure that deeply troubled him.  He spun round to seek strength in numbers but from the faint street lighting he saw his friends lying in the foetal position, barely able to moan, never mind move.  From the sides two dark figures approached him, leaving him nowhere to run.

“Look man, I don’t want no trouble.  We was just fuckin’ wiv ‘im, that’s all.”