Concrete and Clay

I write this in a tiny internet cafe on the stretch of road known locally as Murder Mile. Once quaint, this neighbourhood has seen a steady rise in gang violence in recent years. Having moved here only last October, I had yet to experience this first hand.

But I left in the morning as I usually do only to find Clapton Road sealed by fluorescent clad policemen. There were white-suited CSI type mofos holding hands and walking up and down the street in search of shell cases, I assumed. You see, a young man was shot down in front of the Palace Pavillion while he shielded his girlfriend for the hail of bullets coming from a semi-automatic machine gun, no less.

I used to live in Brockley, near Brockley Cross, where shootings were common occurrences but usually just acts of bravado played out by old boys with modified starter pistols. But to have some cunt spray an AK-47 a block from where I live makes me seriously want to reconsider my postcode.