entrance, top heavy, bowed legs planted firmly apart, arms slightly lifted from his side. I know the shape. I recognise it.
‘Andy!’ I scream. For a moment I’m frozen to the spot, terrified of what might be about to happen. But Andy’s in danger, and within seconds I’m running back towards him.
He swivels his neck to look behind him and he sees the man too. He’s a lot closer than I am. He spins back towards me.
‘Run – Tasha – run,’ he shouts. It’s the first time he has ever called me by my name.
I don’t want to run – I don’t want to leave him.
‘Go,’ he yells.
I hesitate for just a second, and the man rushes towards Andy, arms out to push him over. It’s not Andy he wants, it’s me.
But Andy’s having none of it. He moves into the middle of the unlit alley, his skinny frame looking frail and defenceless in the shadows. He’s not going to let the guy get past, and I know he wants me to escape.
I turn and run as fast as I can, down the alley and into the pedestrian street beyond. There’s a car park just off the street, and I sneak in and crouch down between the cars, watching and waiting for the man to come out of the alley after me, hoping that Andy has just slowed him down a bit and maybe got knocked over into the bargain.
I think I hear a scream, but I don’t know where it’s coming from. The alley? Manchester’s noisy at this time of night, and it might be someone screaming with laughter. A lot of girls seem to scream for no reason that I can see. Please God, don’t let it be Andy. Don’t let him be hurt.
I know that’s wishful thinking.
The minutes pass, time dragging. I’m just beginning to think that the man has gone back the way he came when he appears from the alley and stands still, weighing up the scene. He’s not given up on me, but he can’t see me where I’m hiding, and a few people give him an odd look. I can see he’s covered in something. Something dark. I know it must be blood, and hope it’s his, from a busted nose, or something.
Andy .
The man looks around a bit, but he looks like he’s getting worried about the attention, so he clears off, trying to look as if he hasn’t got a care in the world. I wait just seconds. I need to get to Andy.
I leap up from behind the car and set off at a run, back down the alley. I can’t see him anywhere. Perhaps he’s escaped.
Then I see a foot sticking out from the back doorway of an old building. I don’t have to guess twice as I sprint up the alley.
‘Andy!’ I scream, falling to my knees by his side. His hands are holding his stomach, and he’s bleeding – the warm, sticky blood oozing between his fingers. He’s been stabbed. I touch his belly, feeling the hot, sticky fluid, and whisper his name, stroking his hair, getting blood on his face.
He can’t hear me. I kiss his cheeks, his forehead, his lips, and I cry, my tears mingling with the blood.
His eyes flutter open, and he tries to smile. He’s not dead, but I know he soon will be.
‘Stay there,’ I say foolishly. ‘I’m going to get help.’
I rush out onto the main road, shouting for help.
‘Please – somebody help me. There’s a boy injured down here. Call an ambulance.’
One or two people look at me, but most hurry by, giving me a wide berth. A filthy kid, now covered in blood, asking for help? Not on your life, I can hear them thinking.
I need to act quickly.
A man and his wife are walking towards me, arms linked, laughing about something. They’re having a great time, and I’m about to ruin their evening. She’s swinging an expensive-looking handbag from one hand. I wait for them to get close, and then I charge the woman, ripping the handbag from her arm.
She screams, and the man shouts. I’m sure he will chase me – he has to, or it will have been for nothing – but just to make sure, I turn and wave the handbag backwards and forwards, taunting him, whispering under my breath, ‘ Follow me. Follow me .’
He sets
‘Andy!’ I scream. For a moment I’m frozen to the spot, terrified of what might be about to happen. But Andy’s in danger, and within seconds I’m running back towards him.
He swivels his neck to look behind him and he sees the man too. He’s a lot closer than I am. He spins back towards me.
‘Run – Tasha – run,’ he shouts. It’s the first time he has ever called me by my name.
I don’t want to run – I don’t want to leave him.
‘Go,’ he yells.
I hesitate for just a second, and the man rushes towards Andy, arms out to push him over. It’s not Andy he wants, it’s me.
But Andy’s having none of it. He moves into the middle of the unlit alley, his skinny frame looking frail and defenceless in the shadows. He’s not going to let the guy get past, and I know he wants me to escape.
I turn and run as fast as I can, down the alley and into the pedestrian street beyond. There’s a car park just off the street, and I sneak in and crouch down between the cars, watching and waiting for the man to come out of the alley after me, hoping that Andy has just slowed him down a bit and maybe got knocked over into the bargain.
I think I hear a scream, but I don’t know where it’s coming from. The alley? Manchester’s noisy at this time of night, and it might be someone screaming with laughter. A lot of girls seem to scream for no reason that I can see. Please God, don’t let it be Andy. Don’t let him be hurt.
I know that’s wishful thinking.
The minutes pass, time dragging. I’m just beginning to think that the man has gone back the way he came when he appears from the alley and stands still, weighing up the scene. He’s not given up on me, but he can’t see me where I’m hiding, and a few people give him an odd look. I can see he’s covered in something. Something dark. I know it must be blood, and hope it’s his, from a busted nose, or something.
Andy .
The man looks around a bit, but he looks like he’s getting worried about the attention, so he clears off, trying to look as if he hasn’t got a care in the world. I wait just seconds. I need to get to Andy.
I leap up from behind the car and set off at a run, back down the alley. I can’t see him anywhere. Perhaps he’s escaped.
Then I see a foot sticking out from the back doorway of an old building. I don’t have to guess twice as I sprint up the alley.
‘Andy!’ I scream, falling to my knees by his side. His hands are holding his stomach, and he’s bleeding – the warm, sticky blood oozing between his fingers. He’s been stabbed. I touch his belly, feeling the hot, sticky fluid, and whisper his name, stroking his hair, getting blood on his face.
He can’t hear me. I kiss his cheeks, his forehead, his lips, and I cry, my tears mingling with the blood.
His eyes flutter open, and he tries to smile. He’s not dead, but I know he soon will be.
‘Stay there,’ I say foolishly. ‘I’m going to get help.’
I rush out onto the main road, shouting for help.
‘Please – somebody help me. There’s a boy injured down here. Call an ambulance.’
One or two people look at me, but most hurry by, giving me a wide berth. A filthy kid, now covered in blood, asking for help? Not on your life, I can hear them thinking.
I need to act quickly.
A man and his wife are walking towards me, arms linked, laughing about something. They’re having a great time, and I’m about to ruin their evening. She’s swinging an expensive-looking handbag from one hand. I wait for them to get close, and then I charge the woman, ripping the handbag from her arm.
She screams, and the man shouts. I’m sure he will chase me – he has to, or it will have been for nothing – but just to make sure, I turn and wave the handbag backwards and forwards, taunting him, whispering under my breath, ‘ Follow me. Follow me .’
He sets
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