His feet pounded down the wet street, raincoat streaming out behind him. The adrenaline coursing through him made his body seem too light, his legs too loose. His legs could hardly keep up with the speed of the rest of him.

Muggers! Scum of the earth. He had known them for what they were the moment he had seen them. The three of them slouching along the road, giggling nervously to each other, hunched up in their hoodies.

They were kids, just kids. But old enough for each of them to have a can of cheap cider in their hand. One of them old enough to have a knife in the other, hiding it in his pocket till they drew near.

Why was it like this now? It never used to be. Time was when you could walk down the street at any time of the day or night, and never even thought about the dangers. And if there ever was any trouble, your Dad would know about it before you even managed to get home.

But not now. Telly and cars and Maggie bloody Thatcher had put paid to all that.

They had had a telly when he was young. But it went off at six o’clock when dinner was put on the table. And afterwards they would play. Dad would wrestle and tickle the kids, or Mum would play a game of draughts. They’d lost some of the pieces, but they made do with Lego bricks instead. And the telly wouldn’t come on again until the kids were in bed.

And you knew everyone. People stayed put. Generations of the same family would live in the same house, funeral after funeral. You put your head down at school, you learnt a trade after and you worked for the same firm till you got a watch.

Now telly ruled the world. It came on the moment you got up, and only went off after you had gone to bed. Sometimes not even then. You ate your tea in front of it. You never talked or played games, because telly was on.

Anyway, you were lucky if your old man got home in time for tea. People now worked so far away. No-one walked or bicycled to work now. It was all miles away. And you moved jobs, you moved houses. No-one settled down anymore. No roots. No society. The old cow had been right about that, at least. There was no such thing as society anymore.

So the kids hung around on street corners, because Tony bloody Blair’s lot wouldn’t let youth clubs just do their job. And they painted graffiti everywhere, because it was just buildings. It wasn’t home. They’d be moving on shortly. In his day you didn’t shit on your own doorstep, but now, what did it matter? You’d be moving on in a month.

There was a road on the right. He cannoned into the post-box on the corner and pushed himself off down the new street. He could hardly breathe now. The muggers were young. They were fit. Well, fitter than him anyway. They’d be able to keep this pace up longer than him.

The street he was in now was all shops, closed this time of night. Not a soul about. Why should there be? Who would want to walk down this empty, characterless shopping street? Towns today were all the same. The same shops, the same banks, the same cafes. Bloody Starbucks! Sold every bloody coffee under the sun, except Nescaff, and that was the only one you really wanted. Nescaff, milk, two sugars. They’d look at you like you were mad. And then order you to have a nice day, because that was what some prick in California told them to say.

High Streets now were soulless in the day, dead at night. Dead streets. Streets of death.

His anger spurred him on, pushing him to a brief sprint.

Go for the leader. The gobby one. The one who’d demanded his wallet. Bang! Put him on the ground, and the others would run. Or they’d stand there like sheep, not knowing what to do. Or even if they did have a go at him, at least it’d be two onto one, not three onto one. But he’d had a knife. Would he use it?

Another side road on the right. He grabbed the signpost and used it to swing into the narrow road. Offices either side of the road. And there, a couple of hundred yards in, the back of a department shop blocking off any escape.

Dead street. Dead end. Dead quiet. Dead of night. Dead on his feet. Dead on the ground, back there where they had tried to mug him, the sodium lights turning the blood black as it seeped through the back of the boy’s hood. The iron bar, just the right size to hide in the sleeve of his raincoat, a dead weight in his hand.

He slowed to a walk, panting hard. The two muggers had reached the blank wall of the store, and had realised that there was nowhere further they could run. One of them banged on the delivery bay doors, but there was no-one there. They turned and saw him walking towards them.

They were just kids. Kids. But they pissed their time away on cider and drugs and sluts and mugging innocent, decent people. No more.

He hefted the heavy bar, making sure of his grip. He started to run, a wordless roar rising from his throat, iron bar lifted high over his head.