My legs are burning. I’m pumped and running on empty as I ride up to the police cordon tape that’s been stretched across the road. An aggressive policeman approaches me and tells me that I can’t go down this way, and will have to find another route.
I ask what’s occurred but he’s already moving having just spotted a couple ducking under the blue and white tape.
I ride around to the other side of the street to where an elderly man is stood watching. I ask him what has happened, but he only manages to grin. I’m guessing he knows as much as I do.
In this crazed and fucked up world I’m imagining some great catastrophe, whereby the death toll slowly increases as time ticks by. There are five police cars, one ambulance, nine officers and a dog.
A young chav approaches me enquiring, enthusiastically, about the incident. I tell him that four people have been shot whilst trying to steal popodums from the Indian restaurant. Two people died instantly. The police shot dead the restaurant owner because he’d shot the three thieves, killing one of them.
“dat sick man” he replied.