I drove up the street listening to classical music trying to drown out the hollow sound of minimum wage, council estate life. And as the beautifully emotive piece reached its crescendo, I was warm in a heavenly embrace and far enough away from my surroundings to feel blissfully indifferent. And then, out of the hollowness, he appeared...the Kamikaze-kid! Jumping out from behind a parked car, on some mini suicide mission, he scared me back to hell, and I was like: "WHOAH, YOU STUPID LITTLE FUCK! YOU GOT A DEATH WISH?"—he can't lip read and the windows were up, so I was safe, but he could tell I was pissed. He shrugged his shoulders and stared me down like I was a ten-year-old bottle of scotch, and he a ten-year-clean alcoholic—all predator like. I didn't know what to do! Do I jump out and kick his arse, or do I shoo him along like some suburban sheep hurder? I chose the latter: best choice really, he's only gonna get stronger and I weaker and sooner than you think; God knows what shit they put in the food these days but these kids are giants, even the small ones.
Once he realizes he can't take me, yet, he jumps on his scooter—a Toy Story whip—and flawlessly scoots away, one handed, while flipping me the finger. And I, in a knee jerk response, flick him one back and immediately think: shit! you fool! are you trying to start a war? Obviously, I don't—there's a reason horror films are littered with these fuckers, they may look angelic, but they're evil!—so I quickly turn it into an awkward wave and hope he didn't notice. He didn't.
I slowly made my way to my drive keeping an eye out for any of the other demons looking for death, decay and destruction, but they're not about; they're probably busy ruining someone else's day.
I pull up, get out the car and feel completely jacked from the adrenalin boost from the situation. So, I look over at the Kamikaze-kid's house and see the devil herself, the one who cooked the little bastard, and we stare at one another from opposite sides of no-man's-land—that patch of grass in the middle of every council estate where the kids learn about love and war— and I can't tell if she wants to fight me or fuck me, I'm good with either if it means getting one over on that little fuck. But after a few seconds she turns round, she's probably not that desperate, like some emaciated lioness and heads back to her den; I do the same. I put the key in the door, open it, walk into the hallway and slide down the back of the door as the adrenalin leaves my body. Fight or flight can suck the youth out of a man and I don't have much left. She sees me on the floor and asks "how was it?"
"WHAT? work?" I say, full of hostility.
"No silly, the drive up the estate. Did you see Steve?"
"That little fuck, don't I every day?"
She giggled and said, "you don't mean that, he's only five".
"Five? He looks fifteen. Freak!"
She laughs because she knows me, and then puts out a hand to help me to my feet. I pretend to let her take my weight and climb to a more manly position. We held one another in the hallway as close as possible, well, as close as the demon she has cooking allows, and I tell her to go and sit, I'll bring in a cup of tea. She rubs her belly, smiles and while walking away says "Freak?" and giggle at my lack of decorum. I'd laug, but I'm afraid of what I've gotten myself into, and I know that, soon, the music...oh God, that beautiful music, will never sound the same.


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