The Hate Collective, James Powell [drm ebook reader .TXT] 📗

CHAPTER 1
‘I’m afraid there isn’t much we can do for you’, said the officer sympathetically. ‘Even with an accurate description, the chances of catching him are pretty slim. We just don’t have the resources’. This was an embarrassing yet honest revelation, made in the hope of bonding with the victim, but it didn’t seem to do much good as the man in front of him was visibly shaken and showed no sign of calming down any time soon. It was obvious that this was a first time victim who had no idea how a modern day police force operated. A person who still had faith in the law and expected justice, completely unaware that petty crime was way down on the list of priorities and that these days, the police spend most of their time filling out forms and persecuting motorists, while ignoring the real crimes being committed day in day out right under their noses, on the streets, estates and city centres of this country. The officer was well aware of the flaws in the system, which was a source of great disappointment because he really wanted to make a difference to people’s lives in a positive way, not by handing out ridiculous fines to the law abiding middle classes of shuffling papers behind a desk, activities which seemed to take up a disproportionate amount of his time. Now, he finally had an opportunity to do some real police work, yet all he could do was make excuses. This hurt because if it matters enough for the victim to call the police, then it should be treated seriously and reasonable steps should be taken to catch those responsible. All these thoughts went through the officer’s head, yet the only solution he could offer was woefully inadequate.
‘What I can do for you though, is give you a crime number and put the details of the attack on our database which will help us to better allocate our resources in the future’. This statement was met with an uncomprehending gaze, so he continued, ‘And you never know, we may still catch the guy’. It was never going to happen of course, but the officer felt obliged to offer some hope and reassurance, as giving the poor man a crime number just seemed to add insult to injury.
Even this attempt at comfort failed dismally though, as Michael, staring off into space, hardly aware of another human presence simply thanked the officer for his time, a pretty good indication that he wanted to be left alone. ‘I’ll let myself out then. If you need to talk to someone call this number’, he said leaving a card on the table. ‘I’ll let you know if we make any progress. Michael gave an almost imperceptible nod and the officer sloped off sheepishly, wondering why he ever joined the force if all he could do was offer someone a fucking number. Stepping out into the rain, it all seemed so futile. Was he really helping anyone? Sometimes it didn’t seem like it, but he was doing his best and hoped that is some small way, the world was a better place thanks to him. Maybe he could help the next person.
Michael sat at the kitchen table, alone and afraid, head spinning and mind racing. Occasionally he would return to reality and try to piece together the events of the last few hours, hoping to remember what had just happened and in what order. However, this was proving to be a real challenge as his brain just didn’t seem to be functioning properly anymore. Feelings mixed with faces and anger mixed with relief as he tried his hardest to comprehend the situation, but it was only after a couple of torturous hours had passed by that he was finally calm enough to understand what was going on and maybe even figure out what to do next.
The day had started just like any other. Up at quarter past seven, on the bus by eight fifteen and in the office ten minutes early, giving Michael a few precious minutes to collect his thoughts and prepare himself for the working day. A working day which followed the exact same pattern and saw him typing up reports, dining in the office canteen with his colleagues and then a meeting in the afternoon, which today had finished a little early (a relief to all concerned), allowing Michael to leave the office a whole fifteen minutes sooner than expected, which came as a nice surprise. He always loved it when this happened as it meant he could catch the early bus home and miss the worst of the traffic, which resulted in an extra half hour of free time that evening. Not that he had any plans, but it was nice to relax just a little while longer, although looking back, Michael realised that this early finish had set in motion a disastrous chain of events.
Sitting on the bus, Michael liked to people watch, which seemed like a much more interesting way of passing the time than listening to music or sending text messages on the mobile phone, which was what his fellow passengers always seemed to be doing. He couldn’t help but think how pointless all this technology was, wondering why everyone seemed so incapable of sitting in silence with just their own thoughts for company. Why did they have to be constantly entertained for twenty four hours a day?
There were a lot of familiar faces on the bus that afternoon including several regulars from the morning run, people who Michael recognised, but didn’t know. It always amazed him how the same group of men and women could spend several hours a day in each other’s company without ever speaking. Instead, they just sat in their own little bubbles, shut off from the outside world, unreachable and alienated. There was something quite tragic about this as he realised that they probably spent more time with each other than their own families, yet still nobody spoke. It would only take one person, just one person to open the lines of communication, and pretty soon everybody would be getting along. We spend so much time commuting together, so we might as well get to know each other, thought Michael as the bus slowly made its way home. Nobody would ever be that one person.
Nevertheless, he got off the bus in a pretty good mood, the early finish helping to lift his spirits. He stood still for a second and drank in the sunshine as it was early September, a time of year Michael loved. The skies were clear, the evenings long, but the heat was no longer unbearable. You could feel the seasons start to change, but the heady optimism of summer was still in the air. Life was good.
With a spring in his step, Michael began the fifteen minute walk to his house, taking the quickest route which meant cutting down a quiet little side street. He was alone, but this had never bothered him as life was pretty sedate in this area. It didn’t exactly have a bad reputation. Almost the opposite in fact.
He quickly became aware however, of somebody walking not too far behind him and could tell by the sound of the footsteps that it was a man. This was not a concern though as he had walked this route for years without a hint of trouble, but even so, it was enough to raise the pulse a little, a natural human instinct rather than a genuine fear of course. There was nothing to worry about.
‘ excuse me mate ’ , came the voice from behind unthreateningly. Michael felt reassured, but on turning round, realised that he was in serious trouble.
The blade couldn’t have been more than five inches long, but the man in possession looked more than ready to use it. Michael’s heart sank. Like most people, he had read the stories in the paper. Stories of innocent men being killed for a handful of loose change, cut down needlessly in the prime of their lives by people who had no sense of right and wrong. And now it was his turn. He had to think quickly and decided straight away that this wasn’t the time to be what the media termed a ‘have a go hero’, and that instead he would do whatever it took to get away unharmed. Their eyes met briefly. ‘Give me your fucking money’ was the response.
Michael obeyed this command as though his life depended on it, handing over his wallet instantly, hoping that an immediate show of compliance might make a favourable impression on the attacker, which could potentially guarantee his physical safety. This seemed to work because as soon as the money changed hands and the transaction was completed, the mugger looked at him, eyes full of hate. ‘Now fuck off.’
Michael didn’t need to be told twice. No matter how weak and pathetic it looked he ran, ran like never before until his chest hurt and he started to feel dizzy, ignorant of the pain and desperate to get home.
The sight of his house was a beacon of hope in a sea of despair. Now he was safe. Standing at the front door, the physical pain really kicked in, causing Michael to struggle for breath, the muscles in his chest tightening to the point of near collapse. He tried to fish the house keys from his pocket, but his hands were shaking so badly that even this simplest of tasks took several minutes, until eventually the key slipped neatly into the lock and he finally managed to get inside, slamming the door behind him straight away, still afraid that he might have been followed. After a few minutes the physical symptoms began to subside and Michael wondered. What on earth had just happened?
He tried to figure out what to do next, but clear thinking was virtually impossible, partly because the adrenaline was still rushing through his veins, but also because this was a totally new experience and Michael had no idea how to react. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before, so all he could do was pace around the living room in a frenzy, getting nowhere and achieving nothing. He wanted to cry, but anger stopped him. He wanted to confront the attacker, but fear prevented him. He wanted to scream but wondered what the neighbours would think. Most of all though, he just wanted to forget.
A couple of hours later and Michael had finally calmed down a little. Breathing normal. Pulse steady. Brain finally capable of semi-rational thought. He decided that doing nothing was out of the question and that the best course of action would be a quick call to the police. They probably already knew who the mugger was as it obviously wasn’t the first time that he had threatened someone with a knife.
But as we all know, things are never that straightforward. In fact, unbeknown to Michael, he was actually pretty fortunate to have had a visit from an officer because such a privilege wasn’t usually available in such circumstances. It was only the use of a knife, and the fact that Michael seemed utterly hysterical over the phone, that his case was deemed serious enough for a police visit, and as we have seen, that didn’t really help much anyway. Instead, it raised more questions. Why did the police seem so powerless, to the point where their own officers actually seemed embarrassed? Where did all the money go? If having your life threatened was not a police priority when it came to allocating resources, then what the hell was?
Michael