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. Another gunman. Even scarier! Would he shoot the first guy? No. They seemed to be accomplices. They made their way past me down the street, jerkily — running a bit, stopping, running and stopping, constantly glancing behind them. Was a third gunman about to appear?
My head swam with imaginary bullets and the accompanying headlines. ‘Blasted tot fights for life.’ ‘Dad dies saving baby.’ The gunmen barged into a shop doorway. I took my chance and prepared to leg it but they immediately bounced back out of the shop and began coming towards me again, both peering fearfully up and down the street. There seemed to be danger in both directions. I couldn’t hang around any more. I ran for it, sprinting with the buggy to the end of the street and around a corner.
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