Dark, emaciated clouds loiter above the horizon like vultures, gradually closing in on the last few scraps of sunlight. The buildings on the far side of the park are summoned into silhouette, temporarily lending them a mystery that masks their daytime ugliness and mundanity, imbuing them with a glossy veneer of possibility. The evening’s beginning to grow cold, and I’m gradually losing the momentum that the afternoon’s drinking has given me. I’m returning to neutral, the swing of my intoxication pendulum slowing back to sobriety. As I turn the corner I see a group of lads standing around by the entrance to the alley, in that way that only teenage lads can stand around. There are three of them, about seventeen, maybe younger, all dressed in baggy sportswear, loitering with intent to loiter in the way that only groups of teenage lads can loiter. They’re laughing, swearing, smoking fags, drinking cans of extra strength lager, spitting on the pavement. Maybe I should go the long way round, rather than cut through the alley. No, what am I talking about? It isn’t their turf. They’re not going to do anything if I take the alley. I’m not going to be intimidated by three kids. What have I got to be afraid of? Jokes, insults, spitting, throwing stuff, mugging at knifepoint. What? I can’t be thinking like that. I’m only twenty-three. I’m six foot tall, and I’m reasonably able to look after myself. But they’re three lads from the East End, and I’m a soft suburban boy who’s spent more time in libraries than in fights. And they’re black. Shit, I can’t start thinking like that. I’m a politically correct, left-leanin’, well-meanin’, Guardian-readin’ middle-class guilt machine. The colour of their skin shouldn’t make a difference to the way I see them. But it does. No, I’d still feel a twinge of fear if they were white. They’re disaffected urban youths in casual sportswear, hanging around on the street with nothing to do. Of course I’m worried that they might mug me. What? No. I won’t think like that, won’t let myself think like that. I’m walking through the alley. I’ve overcome my prejudices. Lisa would be proud of me. But she won’t walk through there on her own. It’s isolated and badly lit, and she’s probably already complained to the council about it. It’s exactly the kind of place where people get attacked. But she’s a woman, and she’s got an excuse for her fear. She can retreat to her position of feminist outrage at patriarchal oppression, even if she’s defending a double standard. I’m living under a racist delusion; she has a justified fear of being attacked. I get closer to the end of the alley. I’m not sure what to do with my eyes. I’m not sure which is worse: making eye contact, or looking like you’re afraid of making eye contact. Just act natural. Look as if you don’t need to act natural. I stare blankly ahead. They’re spread across the entrance. I have to slalom between them. One shifts position slightly, says something I don’t catch. Is he talking to me? My heart rate accelerates. He shifts position again. Was that a move towards me? A signal to the others? No, calm down, idiot. They’re not going to attack you. They’re just minding their own business. They’re not going to attack you. I keep walking. I hear a laugh. Are they taking the piss out of me? What am I going to do about it if they are? I walk on down the alley, trying not to quicken my pace, trying not to feel as if I’ve just had a narrow escape.
No man is a failure who has friends.