I lock the door, batten the hatches, zip up my warm winter fleece, slip on my black satin mask, and venture out into the night. The mask makes my ears stick out. My glasses steam up. I take it off and hold it by its string.
There’s a tinkle: broken glass, an alarm goes off in a house next door. I should go and investigate, but.
Turning into the dark street, I see a group of kids push an elderly couple into the gutter. I should tell them to stop.
Passing the shut corner shop, I see a dark shadow, a man standing over a teenager, pummelling him with his fists, kicking him in the midriff with studded army boots, berating, threatening him. The boy looks up, cowering beside a windblown wheelie bin lying on its side, litter spews over grubby tarmac. He’s just a kid, no older than thirteen, he pleads to his angered assailant, ‘Don’t kill me, don’t kill me, don’t kill me!’
He turns his head to face me thru the cast iron gate. It’s locked: the gate, I know it’s locked, I want it to be locked. The gate has a padlock, locking it from the inside. There’s a gap, above the gate. I’m fit, strong, athletic: I could easily scale the gate, climb over the top, save the boy. There’s no-one else around, just me, the dark shadow of the man standing over the boy, punching his head with his fists, kicking him in the stomach with stud nail boots, drawing out the knife. The knife flashes in the half-light. He prepares to kill the boy. I hear a distant wail: police siren, girls swear in the street, yobs shove women into a gutter, alarm bells ring, sounds of tinkling glass.
‘Please!’ the boy pleads, ‘Help me!’
I shut my eyes, batten my hatches, slip on my satin mask, walk into the night. Do I have it in me?
