Blood of the South

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There is a collective evil that comes over a crowd of people intent on bullying someone. Faces that are habitually genial twist and distort; mouths made for smiling turn down into scowls of anger, dislike and even hatred. It is as if, given a strong lead by the man who first singles out the victim – and I’m afraid it usually seems to be a man – other, kinder souls feel compelled to follow. Then the whole thing gathers an awful sort of impetus, and before you know it, someone gets hurt.

That September morning, as Gurdyman and I stood on the Cambridge quayside in the thin, early sunshine, the victim was a young woman. From her garments, her voluminous veil and what I could see of her face, she was not local. She had a baby with her: in that first glance, I could make out no details, merely noticing the wrapped shape placed on the ground beside her, the swaddling blankets folded too tightly to allow anything to emerge from the bundle except high-pitched, piercing screams. The woman was not trying to soothe her child; she wasn’t even cuddling it. She had both hands up in front of her face in frantic, terrified self-defence, because someone had just chucked a lump of smelly mud at her.

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