Free A New Dawn Rising by Michael Joseph Page A

pushchairs, chatting to each other as their children skipped unnoticed around them. The bus slowed down at a corner, where a group of menacing looking teenagers loitered, their hoods up in uniform, openly smoking spliffs and drinking alcohol. They stared threateningly at the bus as it went past. Then a flurry of stones ricocheted off the bodywork, the windows of the bus somehow surviving the onslaught unscathed. Sam looked at the other passengers. Not one face registered alarm or surprise at the attack.
    The bus came to a standstill in front of a run-down row of shops. Seeing everybody else get off, Sam did the same. He watched the driver change the destination on the front of the bus back to Bursleigh Town Centre. Sam noticed how he didn't hang around, zooming off as soon as the last passenger had stepped onto the pavement.
    Sam took his beanie hat out of his pocket and put it on. The temperature had suddenly plummeted. He looked around him. A high-rise block of flats towered into the air above him, the majority of its balconies festooned with various items of washing. Sam heard a blood-curling scream from somewhere within the flats. Nobody around him batted an eyelid. A mangy dog, tied too tight to a nearby lamp-post, barked half-heartedly. Two teenage girls walked past him, both pushing prams. A baby's bottle fell out of one of the pushchairs and clattered onto the pavement, coming to rest near Sam's feet. He moved to pick it up, but one of the girls got there first, swearing angrily at her baby for dropping it. She looked up at Sam.
    'What are you looking at, you pervert?'
    Before Sam could answer, the young mums looked at each other, sniggered and continued on their way. As they reached the entrance to the flats, one of them turned and stuck two fingers up at him. Sam shook his head sadly. He had grown up on a council estate himself. But while hope and solidarity had abounded there, the Withdean seemed awash with apathy and despair. As if to prove his point, a lad no older than sixteen ran out of the nearby off-licence holding aloft a spirit bottle. His mates were waiting outside for him. They all whooped and cheered in delight. A harassed looking man ran out of the shop, shouting after the lad. He stopped when he saw the gang of youths glaring at him, daring him to take it further. It was enough to send the man meekly back inside. Sam watched the youngsters collapse in laughter. They moved off, slapping each other on the backs, crowing over their stolen prize.
    Sam took in the rest of the shops. The ones that didn't have shutters down. A launderette and a newsagent looked the only ones open for business. Sam walked past them. Around the corner stood a group of men, smoking and chatting outside a bookmakers. The bookies shop itself was crowded with punters. Sam knew the score. Take the dole money and hope to multiply it, then struggle for the rest of the week. Across a bare patch of land lay a pub. The Duck. With several windows boarded up, paint peeling off the woodwork and rubbish strewn all over the car park, it didn't look particularly enticing. But Sam guessed it would be a focal point for underhand activity and dodgy characters. The very reasons he had come down here.
    He hadn't anticipated just how busy The Duck would be at four o'clock on a weekday afternoon. Clearly, those men on the estate not betting their money away were set on drinking it up the wall. A number of customers stared at Sam as he entered. He knew he stuck out like a sore thumb in a local like this. He had done it many times before. His preferred method was to engage the drunkest looking person in a bit of banter. Use them to blend into the surroundings.
    'You lost, mate?' asked a tall, unshaven man leaning against the bar. Sam had picked him out within seconds of walking through the door. 'Haven't seen you in here before.'
    Sam smiled, got the barman's attention and ordered a whisky.
    'Visiting an old pal of mine,' he replied. 'But it seems he's