April 12, 2008

Woke up for the second time in my new place today craving for thirst-quenching cup of tea. Got up, got dressed - as with having no curtains yet, the whole passing world of Sleepy Hollow can see me should they bother to look up - and went down to the kitchen.

In the fridge, there are seven cans of Carlsberg. And nothing else. Hmm. Need milk.

Go out and across the road to purchase said semi-skimmed cow juice. Return.

Hmm.

No teabags.

And no kettle.

Or cups.

Go out and across the road to purchase said water-boiling device and associated required items. Return.

Thinks: Will run huge long bath in huge new long bath while drinking tea.

Goes upstairs, puts in the plug, turns on the hot water. Which turns out to be cold.

Goes to check boiler only to discover there is no boiler. Because there is no gas in the building.

Finds electric-sucking immersion heater. Turns it on.

Makes tea using new kettle and new cups and new milk and new tea bags.

Burns fingers removing teabag as have no spoons. Or forks. Or any other cutlery.

Blogs (because at least had the sense to make sure that worked properly).

Twiddles fingers.

Looks out of window.

Walks around the flat again wondering what else he hasn't got.

Looks out of window again.

Goes online and reads all the papers.

Pokes a few people on Facebook.

Blogs again.

Reads all the sport.

Stares at mobile for umpteenth time. Checks it's working properly.

Looks out of window.

Goes upstairs and gets back into bed with laptop as it is the only sit on-able thing in the flat.

Remembers immersion heater. Goes to run bath.

Thinks.

No towel.

Will have to buy towel.

Water not hot enough yet.

Goes to go out across the road to buy said drying device while water heats up.

Cannot get further than Roof Terrace of Dreams, however, as his twelve iron steps that lead to the ground have disappeared.

Instead, two men are smiling up at him, not a little sheepishly.

"Oh, hallo mate. Sorry - we didn't realise anyone was in."

"Yes, I can see."

"We're putting new steps in because those other ones were a bit dodgy."

"Ah."

"It's good, like. Be much safer."

"Yes. Safer than, say, me jumping off this roof to get out of my home?"

"Er, yeah. Sorry about that. It'll only be a few hours."

Goes inside, checks to see if water is hot enough for drip-dry bath yet.

Correct.

It's still not.

EDIT AT 1.19pm: I need toilet paper.

April 12, 2008

The thing I couldn't take my eyes off were the boy's hands: Huge, shovel-like gnarls of knuckle and muscle, nervously rolling the end of a tie up, and down, or palm to palm with fingers outstretched and the thumbs pressed together with such pressure that the tips turned white.

His hair was like a marine's: the real short back and sides, with the blond crop brushed forward, accentuated as he dipped his head down towards the floor, looking for invisible distractions.

And like any 13-year-old, he looked awkward in his suit, fidgeting in this alien outfit, uncomfortable in this unnatural skin.

Or perhaps that wasn't why he was uncomfortable, after all. To be honest, it was hard to tell whether it was because he was in a suit; whether it was because he was sat with his mum in a room full of reasonably hostile strangers; whether he wondered who the two guys were sat either side of him; whether he realised why lots of people were furiously writing things down; or because he was wary of the man in the red dress and the strange wig.

Or, was it because he was listening to how he'd finally admitted running away from a care home in Lancashire, where he'd been incarcerated for his eighth act of violence in two years, this time for kicking a 14-year-old boy in the head so hard the victim only woke up in hospital, returned to his home area of Birkenhead, was tracked down by social workers when he was high on cider and vodka, threatened to set off a firework in their car and punched the windows until he was able to escape, ran off, found a drunk, vulnerable man sitting next to a bonfire, repeatedly punched and kicked and suffocated him to death, rifled through the corpse's pockets and stole a lighter, cigarette papers and tobacco, hauled the corpse into the middle of the fire, where it was blackened so badly his next of kin were never allowed to see him, then went to a nearby YMCA, with blood splattered all over his shoes, to say someone had fallen on the fire, then disappeared again, then gone to a kebab shop to pass on the body on fire news, then eventually been arrested by police and only after months and months and months said it all happened because he was "angry"?

The boy was described as being of the highest possible risk that a person can be assessed as. He was sentenced to an absolute bare minimum of 13 years before the subject of parole can even be considered. He will be 26, twice his age now, before a decision can be made on whether he should ever again see the free light of day.

The police mugshot does not do credit to the boy/man sat in court 4-1 at Liverpool yesterday morning. In the months since that was taken, he has gained maybe a stone. He is taller than me, and I wouldn't have batted an eyelid had he been stood next to me in a pub. Indeed, I would have avoided his gaze. Intimidating, huge, menacing - and now, with his first murder under his belt.

Described as "unsettled, unhappy and angry", with "a sense of hopelessness", this "troubled and troubling teenager" has been unceremoniously dragged up, though that is no excuse for his horrific violence.

That said, on the night he killed a man, he was in the vicinity of his father's home: Not that the father was in, of course. He himself had just been arrested and would eventually receive more than a decade behind bars, for the robbery of a neighbour who he beat so badly that the man is now tetraplegic.

This young man, Smith, will terrify the other child inmates of whichever institution he has now been sent to.

But as with Thompson and Venables before him - two much more fresh-faced youngsters I stared at with stunned disbelief in the exact same dock back in 1993 - you really do start to wonder what kind of society we've become.

April 12, 2008

Zeigarnik, noun
Psychology, tendency to remember an uncompleted rather than a completed task

"Hang on," said Nipper. "Who's go is it on Scrabulous?"

"Erm, mine," lied Zeds