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the Stokie Crew had been sent back to North London but the police weren’t taking any chances.

Chapter 3
~ Street Life ~
    It was a hot, sticky Saturday night and East London was alive. Every car stereo was turned to the full, every convertible car was converted and every house that had a fan was burning up electricity. Every fifteen minutes or so sirens could be heard in the distance – and some not so distant. People took it for granted that whatever was going down had nothing to do with them. All they had to do was get out of the way and stay composed as they did so. Even the police looked relaxed tonight: those that were on the cruise had their windows down, shirtsleeves up and radios blasting out – police radio that is, talk radio.
    At home Martin had just finished his bath. He stood in his bedroom looking at himself in the full-length mirror making sure his old Kappa sweatshirt and baseball cap went with the Armani jeans that his mother had just bought him. But he wasn’t sure about his trainers. Could he wear a pair of cheap Hi-Tectrainers with his £50 worth of sweatshirt and his £90 worth of jeans? It didn’t look right. Then he realised that he didn’t have any other trainers anyway. The doorbell rang once, ding-dong, then twice, ding-dong, then there was a continuous ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. Martin ran down the stairs jumping three steps at a time and sounding like a herd of elephants.
    His mother shouted from the living room, ‘Martin, tell ya friend that there’s no one here with a hearing problem. One bloody ring is enough – and walk downstairs, will ya.’
    When Martin opened the door he found Mark and Matthew trying to keep a straight face. ‘Why ya ringing the bell so much, man. My parents are watching television, man.’
    Mark stopped laughing. ‘What’s the problem? That’s the way ya ring my bell.’
    â€˜Yeah but not if yu parents are in.’
    â€˜Dat’s how yu ring it all the time, guy.’
    â€˜I don’t, man, I look for ya dad’s car first,’ Martin said, pointing to the road.
    â€˜My dad doesn’t always drive, yu know, guy. Anyway, ya don’t even know my dad’s car.’
    â€˜Course I do.’
    â€˜What is it, den?’
    â€˜It’s a Ford.’
    â€˜Look, how many different Fords there are. What kind of Ford?’
    Matthew interrupted, ‘Forget it, let’s go.’
    Martin shouted back into the flat, ‘Mom, Dad, I’m off out. I’ll see ya later.’
    â€˜Hang on a minute.’ Martin’s mother forced herself to leave the murder mystery she was watching and made her way to the hallway. ‘Now you lot, look after yourselves and don’t go getting yourselves into trouble. Any problems give us a ring, all right … and Martin, look after those jeans, they cost a bloody bomb, I should have insured them.’
    Mark and Matthew muttered, ‘Yes, Mrs Turner,’ holding back the laughter.
    Martin felt obliged to answer. ‘Yes, Mom, we’re safe, don’t worry and if there’s any problems with my jeans, I’ll ring.’
    â€˜Go on, get out.’
    As they approached Natalie’s house they walked very slowly, knowing that she would be looking out for them. Martin promised that he would not call attention to himself or look in but he couldn’t help having a peep. He called Natalie’s father Sherlock, after Sherlock Holmes, because he always wore tweed and he always had a pipe hanging from his mouth, which he never seemed to smoke.
    As Martin looked in, there was Sherlock, reading a newspaper on his puffy chair. His chair was placed so that he could watch television and the world outsidethe window at the same time. It looked as if her mother was asleep on the settee and he could not see Natalie. They walked past, stopped at the corner and after a small debate on whether they should or shouldn’t, they