‘Let’s go,’ said Connor to his new friend, keeping his voice low and even. He didn’t want to show how nervous he really was. He might be trained in kickboxing and jujitsu, but he wasn’t looking for a fight. His jujitsu teacher had drilled into him that violence was the last resort. Especially when outnumbered four to one – that was just asking for trouble.
The Indian boy took a hesitant step towards him, but the gang leader planted a hand on his chest. ‘You’re going nowhere.’
Frozen to the spot with fear, the boy looked to Connor in wide-eyed desperation.
A tense stand-off now ensued between Connor and the gang. Connor’s eyes flicked to each gang member, his kitbag at the ready to protect himself in case one of them pulled a knife.
‘I said, leave him alone,’ he repeated, edging between the gang and their victim.
‘And I said, mind your own business,’ replied the leader, launching a fist straight at the boy’s face.
As the terrified boy let out a yelp, Connor moved in and deflected the punch with a forearm block. Then he took up a fighting stance, fists raised, defying the gang to come any closer.
Glaring at Connor, the leader broke into a mocking laugh. ‘Watch out, everyone! It’s the Karate Kid!’
Don’t laugh too soon, thought Connor, unshouldering his kitbag.
The leader sized up Connor. Then he swung a wild right hook at Connor’s head. With lightning reflexes, Connor ducked, drove forwards and delivered a powerful punch to the gut in return.
The unexpected strike should have floored the gang leader, but he was much stronger than he looked. Instead of collapsing, he merely grunted and came back at Connor with a combination of jab, cross and upper cut. Connor went on the defensive. As he blocked each attack, it became blindingly obvious the lad was a trained boxer. Having underestimated his opponent, Connor rapidly reassessed his tactics. Although Connor was faster, the gang leader had the advantage of power and reach. And, without gloves, this fight had the potential to be deadly – just one of those sledgehammer fists could land him in hospital.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall, thought Connor, recalling how in jujitsu a larger opponent could be defeated by using their strength against themselves.
As the gang leader let loose a vicious roundhouse punch to his head, Connor entered inside its arc and spun his body into his attacker. Redirecting the force of the strike, he flung the lad over his hip and body-dropped him to the concrete. The leader hit the ground so hard all the breath was knocked out of him. The gang stared in disbelief at their fallen leader, while the Indian boy could barely suppress a grin of delight at seeing his tormentor squirm in the dirt.
‘Get … him!’ the leader wheezed, unable to rise.
The boy with the Nike baseball cap charged in, executing a flying side-kick. Connor leapt to one side before realizing his new friend was right behind him. With no time to spare, Connor shoved him out of the kick’s path.
Nike’s foot struck the wall instead. Incensed, he turned on Connor and launched a furious succession of spinning kicks. Surprised at the boy’s skill, Connor was forced to retreat. As he backed away, only instinct – born from hours of sparring – warned him of a simultaneous attack from behind. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Hoodie step forward and swing the skateboard at his head.
At the last second, Connor ducked. The tail of the deck missed him by a whisker and struck Nike full in the face instead. The boy fell to his knees, semi-concussed.
Hoodie, horrified at his mistake, was now an open target. Connor took advantage and shot out a side-kick. But the boy reacted faster than Connor expected and held up his deck as a shield. Having broken wooden blocks to pass his black-belt grading, Connor knew the right technique. Gritting his teeth, he drove on through – the board shattering rather than his foot. From there, it took Connor a simple palm strike to floor Hoodie.
With all three boys out of action, the girl now advanced on him.
Connor held up his hands in peace. ‘Listen, I don’t fight girls. Just walk away and we can forget all about this.’
The girl stopped, tilted her head and smiled sweetly at him. ‘How nice of you.’
Then she punched Connor straight in the mouth, splitting his lip. With barely a pause, the girl followed through with a kick to the thigh, her heavy Dr Martens giving him a dead leg exactly where Jet had struck him earlier in the bout. He crumpled against the wall.
‘I fight boys, though!’ she said as Connor, stunned and hurting, tried to recover his balance.
The girl went to kick him again, but rather than retreat Connor moved in and caught her leg in mid-swing. Struggling to free herself, she struck for his neck with the edge of her hand. But Connor grabbed hold of her wrist and twisted her arm into a lock, forcing her to submit. The girl squealed in pain.
‘LET THAT GIRL GO!’
Connor glanced back down the alley. Two police officers – a tall black man and a slender white woman – were hurrying towards them. Connor reluctantly released the girl, who promptly kicked him in the shin before running off in the opposite direction. The rest of the gang followed close on her heels.
Connor went to go after them, but the policeman seized him by the scruff of the neck. ‘Not so fast, sonny. You’re coming with us.’
‘But I was trying to save this boy,’ Connor protested.
‘What boy?’ questioned the policewoman.
Connor looked up and down the alley … but it was deserted. The boy had gone.
The officers escorted Connor across Freemasons Road and down a side street to an imposing red-brick building. As they neared the entrance, the traditional blue lamp of the Metropolitan Police came into view. Below this was a sign in bold white lettering declaring: CANNING TOWN POLICE STATION. They climbed the steps, passing a poster warning Terrorism – if you suspect it, report it, and entered through a set of heavy wooden doors, the blue paint chipped and worn.
The station’s foyer was poorly lit and depressingly drab, the walls bare, apart from a cork noticeboard promoting a local Neighbourhood Watch meeting. The sole pieces of furniture were a bench and a glass reception booth, manned by a single bored custody officer. As the three of them approached, he looked up and tutted upon seeing Connor’s split lip and the splashes of blood dotted across his sweatshirt.
‘Name?’ the custody officer asked him.
‘Connor Reeves.’
‘Age?’
‘Fourteen.’
He noted this down on a ledger. ‘Address and contact number?’
Connor gave his home in Leytonstone.
‘Family?’
‘Just my mum and gran,’ he replied.
As this was added to the ledger, the policewoman explained the reason for detaining Connor and the custody officer nodded, seemingly satisfied.
‘In there,’ he said, pointing with his pen to a door labelled INTERVIEW ROOM.
Connor was marched across the foyer. The policeman stayed behind to log the contents of his kitbag with the custody officer.
‘After you,’ said the policewoman, ushering him through.
Connor stepped inside. In the centre of the room was a large desk with a single lamp and a couple of hard wooden chairs. A single fluorescent strip buzzed like a mosquito, casting a bleached light over the depressing scene. There was a musty smell in the air and the blinds were drawn across the window, giving an unsettling sense of isolation from the rest of the world.
In spite of his innocence, Connor’s throat went dry with apprehension and his heart began to beat faster.
This just isn’t right! he thought. He’d tried to stop a mugging and he was the one being arrested. And what thanks had he got for stepping in? None. The Indian boy had disappeared without a trace.
‘Sit down,’ ordered the policewoman, pointing to the chair in front of the desk.
Connor reluctantly did as he was told.
The policeman rejoined them, closing the door behind him. He handed his colleague a thick folder. The female officer stepped behind the desk, flicked on the lamp and sat opposite Connor. In its glare, Connor watched the policewoman lay the folder on the table and, next to this, place a notepad and pen. To Connor’s growing unease, the folder was stamped STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL.