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about. How come that wasn’t spotted?’
    ‘It was. They’ve got film of the three guys dragging her behind the warehouse.’
    I turn to look at Andy, shaking my head. He can’t be serious about this.
    ‘Yeah and I bet that’s a comfort to the girl. She was only fifteen.’
    Even I know that her age shouldn’t matter but actually it does. She’s only young and this has probably ruined her entire life. But I’m on a roll, so I continue.
    ‘It’s not like it was spotted as it actually happened. They only looked at those tapes after the crime had been reported. And you know what? The pictures are too dark and grainy to identify anyone properly. Christ, how often do you hear that?’
    ‘They can’t be watching every camera all the time. It was just unlucky.’
    ‘I can see how that will cheer her up. Perhaps you should write and tell her that.’
    Andy doesn’t answer. We carry on walking, across the huge expanse of car park and between the parked cars towards thebus shelter. But all the time I’m thinking of that girl. And I feel sure that the cameras focused on the businesses on this retail park are the ones that are watched the most.
    We are supposed to feel safe having these cameras all over the place. Like the knowledge that there is supposedly someone watching will deter potential wrongdoers from doing wrong. I don’t buy that. Most people don’t. And I’m sure that the girl who was raped doesn’t feel safe any more. If you ask me what
might
deter people from behaving badly, I’d have to say that you couldn’t do better than have the physical presence of someone big, wearing a uniform, carrying a heavy stick and backed by some kind of authority. Someone actually there, patrolling. And the mass of cameras in every town centre don’t seem to have any effect on the drunken, brawling, puking, pissing crowds that gather to get wasted on Friday and Saturday nights. Not that it’s totally restricted to weekends.
    We’re getting to the far side of the car park now, and the parked cars have startedto thin out. From some of these cars we hear the persistent rhythm of techno-trance music from the entertainment systems.
    Gathered around the cars in places are groups and gangs I don’t know or recognise. They all look the same though and dress the same. And talk the same. Actually, it’s like a totally separate language. There’s nothing new in this. These lot use street talk that I think is based on the language used by American hip-hop stars – not that I’ve analysed it or anything, but that’s how it sounds to me. My brother Sean talks like this all the time. Others – like Andy and me, for example – don’t speak like this. But we understand it readily enough. We’re immersed in it and surrounded by it. To the chavs who wear the Burberry and the hooded sweatshirts, it’s their language of choice. And because I’m thinking of this right now, I’m stretching my ears to listen to what’s being said in the group we’re now passing.
    ‘Bo bredrin, wa g’wan?’
    ‘Skeen Kelly Richards init?
    ‘She a right sket, init.’
    ‘She’s right blinged up and with Stewart Macca.’
    ‘Macca’s solid man, so don’t be dissin Kelly.’
    ‘Nah, he a pimp, init.’
    ‘Skeen ’is wheels? Fuckin’ wack init?’
    And so it goes on, but we’re out of earshot already. I know instinctively what they’re saying; it translates as something like this:
    ‘I say there, friends, what’s going on?’
    ‘Have you seen Kelly Richards?’
    ‘She’s an utter slut isn’t she?’
    ‘Well, she’s dressed to the nines and adorned with a great deal of jewellery, and she is currently escorting Stewart MacCartney.’
    ‘MacCartney is something of a tough fellow, so it would be a good idea
not
to say anything disrespectful about Kelly.’
    ‘I disagree –he’s actually nothing better than a common male prostitute.’
    ‘Have you seen the car he currently drives? It’s absolutely awful, wouldn’t you