The attack came on the third-floor walkway of the council block where I live in London. Afterwards, the redhead threw my library books over the balcony rail and swaggered a little as he warned me I would be next. In a sense, I did know the attack was coming. Two nights earlier, my wife and I had called the police out twice as stones and kicks were aimed at our door by a group of boys that included this pair, the youngest and most obstreperous among them. The trouble had begun almost exactly a year earlier, in the summer holidays of Boys from neighbouring blocks began hanging out in our stairwell, staring sullenly as we struggled to pass, and littering the stairwell with cans, Popsicle wrappers and the debris of spliffs.
The kids spat on the floor between drags and used the corners of the landings to pee. For most of that year, Leila - my wife - worked abroad. With no one but myself to worry about, I decided to throw these kids out whenever I found them inside the block. On the whole, they would leave when asked, though always with demands for respect. But a few responded with abuse, and by the time Leila returned the following spring, abuse had turned to threats.
I reported all of this to the local Safer Neighbourhood Team, a police unit made up of part-time special constables drawn from the area. They supplied diary forms and asked if we could keep records to show a "course of harassment". As a result, a couple of boys received ABCs, or antisocial behaviour contracts that, we were told, were a step towards the more robust asbo: It seemed everything we did was a step that would lead elsewhere, and do so endlessly. I think it was then I realised the cycle could end only when one of the boys committed a more serious offence. When the attack came, my library books and my spectacles made it seem all the more dramatic: The police arrived in 20 minutes.
I was asked if I wanted to go to hospital, but refused. Unfortunately, the policeman did not tell me that the Crown Prosecution Service was unlikely to take the case to court without a doctor's report. His partner said nothing, simply stood with a finger on his radio earpiece as though alert to a more interesting case. I tried to stoke their enthusiasm by describing the worst of the recent events: I told them that if the boys were not charged, they would feel they had a green light to do whatever they wanted.
The police agreed, but soon left, leaving me deflated. My shirt was streaked with blood, so I took it off and sat on the stairs, bare-chested, face turned to the skylight above. Our little two-storey flat is spectacularly sunny: The block is situated in a well-to-do corner of west London, giving us an unlikely, upmarket address. We bought it 10 years ago from a council tenant who had exercised her right to buy.
A third of the flats are now in private hands, though the rest are buy-to-lets, leaving us the sole owner-occupiers among a mix of council tenants and transient professionals. I loved the place, but as I sat, half-naked, feeling the stinging in my lip and the swelling of my eye, I was as despondent as I had ever been. After a year of abuse, I had begun to dread turning the corner on to the estate in case I saw the kids in my stairwell. At that moment, Leila called to ask what was in the fridge. We discussed possible supper ideas before I told her what had happened.
At once, she insisted I call the police again, both the local station and the Safer Neighbourhood Team. She galvanised me and, within an hour, I was in an interview room with two new policemen who apologised that the original pair had finished their shift. As they took a detailed statement, they expressed surprise that it had not been taken on the scene.
They also explained why it would have been better to have a doctor's report, and then rustled up an old Polaroid camera to take pictures under the gloomy strip lighting. One of them told me he had once been a police driver, and I sensed he missed this work. He explained that they could arrest the boys, but said they would sit in the cells only until a youth worker and solicitor were found the next day.
He knew both of them. The smaller one had an ABC and I recounted my first memory of him: The ex-driver described the redhead as "the Clearasil kid" and suggested I mention the boy's copious acne in my statement. He made the same complaint that I had heard over and over from the regular police, that it was no longer like the old days, and they could not clip the kids' ears. Then he asked if I was ready to hear the worst: He'll claim that you assaulted him. I was not there to see the arrest. The next morning, Leila and I flew to Greece.
I had been hired to teach creative writing and, for the first few days, I wore sunglasses so no one's first impression of me would be a black eye. Of course, after telling one person the story, everyone soon knew and a man came forward to tell me he was a GP. I finally got the necessary doctor's report as well as good, clear photographs taken in natural light.
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By this time, bruises had emerged on my thighs, the marks of the scrabbling by the smaller boy as he clung to my back. Another participant turned out to be a senior police officer and she also warned that the boys would make a counter-allegation. She recalled an assault on one of her officers and complained bitterly that the Crown Prosecution Service had initially refused to prosecute because there were no independent witnesses. I kept hearing the same complaint: There was no CCTV on my estate and no witnesses to the assault. I reflected on other problems, too, especially the broken-down quality of the local police station: Staying in Greece, a thousand miles away, we had no idea what was happening.
I had a crime number that supposedly allowed me to track the case, but my emails went unanswered and attempts to telephone the station led to call waiting. Eventually, an email returned with the news that my case had been marked confidential, with access restricted to the investigating officers. This seemed extraordinary and when I wrote back, I was assured that it was - but they had no explanation. Soon, I was fantasising that I had become the chief villain and would be arrested. The problem was, Leila was returning to the flat alone.
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The flavors probably shouldn't go together, but let's try it anyway! The folks at Pour Vous , the newish Hollywood cocktail lounge, get it right by looking for flavors that absolutely belong together but maybe haven't waltzed subtly in a glass before. This is a dance you don't want to miss: The Lapin Fou pairs eau de vie with carrot, ginger, lemon and the sweet herbal cordial Velay Jaune for a drink that tastes like you're standing in the middle of a spring vegetable patch.
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Some days, you just want to drink like an old man. And while most any bartender in town will whip up a martini with glee, there are some classic drinks that aren't as common, and therefore not as likely to be done right. Luckily, the good folks at dapper West L. They make a damn fine Sazerac and provide a dark-wood-bedecked, librarylike room in which to enjoy it. The old man in you will grunt approvingly as he takes another sip.
Gin is having its moment in the cocktail world, and the Negroni — that classic mix of gin, Campari and Italian vermouth — has offered much inspiration to the bartenders of the world recently. But the Negroni is a glorious drink, and despite the fact that there are many variations, the original is hard to beat. One drink that's basically a Negroni variant that caught our attention and then made us swoon is served at the Varnish, downtown's grown-up cocktail den in the back of Cole's Restaurant.
The Nice Legs is made from gin, gentiane liqueur and Barolo Chinato with an orange twist. It is lighter than a classic Negroni, more herbal thanks to the gentiane a liqueur made from the roots of a wildflower that grows at high altitudes in France and just the right amount of bitter and refreshing. It's a drink that is at once fun and grown-up, refreshing and perplexing.
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