Max crept, nervously down the main road, shrinking at the sight of the six foot, bare muscled hooligans who were swarming down the Eastbourne-road.
They formed gangs as they roamed the streets, terrorising pensioners and private-school goers alike.
In his classy duffle coat he stood out like a sore-thumb from the ill dressed and wretched specimens who were causing homeowners to pull up the blinds and commuters to quickly avert their eyes.
It was a terrifying experience.
There was a great throng of them up ahead, and they were all conversing in that colloquial language that speaks of a middle income child seeking to gain street credibility, he’s seen it often enough.
They had rolled back their sleeves to show their steroid induced muscular arms, their tattoos coming to life as they moved.
Further down the course of there arms a row of train tracks appeared, the grim legacy of a heroine addiction, picked up at the age of three and never quite discarded.
Their hair was cut right to the scalp, many of them chose to have swastikas imprinted on their heads for life.
The girls wore skirts which extended a few inches down their legs, their blouses having been colonised by tissues thrust in for effect.
As was their way they didn’t notice him until he was metres away from them.
He kept his eyes pointed to the floor as they hurled verbal abuse at him, ‘We know where you live!’ was chanted again and again, he still heard it when he went to sleep.
After that was the long wait for the never-on-time bus, a huge coach with red lettering on the side, which pulled up slowly and rescued him from the shower of rotten eggs which he was being pelted with.
A private school goer