A taste of gun crime

Crack crack crack. Three shots, really close, from a car-park just across the road. Everyone in the crowded street stopped. No doubt what this was — gun crime erupting under our noses. Two more shots. Crack crack. Then another. Crack! My eight-month-old son was in a buggy and I shoved him into a gap between two parked cars. What next? Run for it? But I might charge into the line of fire. I paused, terrified.

Around me everyone stared in shock and bewilderment. At the end of the street a young black guy came running round the corner, both hands under his sweatshirt, hiding something. He looked wired and frantic and was clearly fleeing danger but he was also trying to be unobtrusive. He ran a bit, then stopped, ran a bit more and stopped, looking over his shoulder anxiously. I froze. Another black guy appeared round the same corner, also with his hands hidden under his top.