EXCERPT
Marko's head began to hurt. This had happened every day for as long as he could remember. His head and the nape of his neck felt as if they were being squeezed slowly and steadily. The pain grew worse as he ran down the six flights of stairs. It would stay with him all the way until he had covered the mile to safety and Windsor Street. Marko was unfortunate. He was a black kid living in Boot Boy territory, where every wall was painted with the names' of his enemies. (Each year their titles changed. Skinhead, Boot Boy. ...) Tony and Tommy, Steve and Bill, Dick and Chas and Bicklo. BICKLO was on nearly every wall. The King Boot Boy painted his name on walls throughout his territory as a reminder of his power.
               High above the scribble of names everywhere was a single stark word-WHACKER. It was always in black, and isolated from the others, as if it belonged to someone very special and very different. Graffiti in the tenements are never erudite. 'Bicklo is ace' is the only complete sentence to be found among them. The kids have no clever messages, no profound insights into life. They possess only their names and these they paint up, over and over again, granting themselves a brief immortality.
               Marko crossed Grafton Street. It was long and narrow and ran parallel to the docks-Toxteth, Brunswick, Coburg, Queen's, King's, Wapping. Going south it reached into the Dingle, and north into the city centre. Marko walked with his fists clenched in the pouch of his overalls and his eyes constantly flicking over every person that moved. He wished at times he could see round corners. He was a creature of habit. Each day he followed the same zigzagging route up to the black ghetto. It was a long climb through tenement country, along narrow, scantily surfaced cobbled streets, across concrete playgrounds and tiny patches of waste ground. Scattered along his route were a few shops-grocers, newsagents, launderette and pubs.
               He reached Beaufort Street, and hesitated at the corner. Six months ago, a gang of Boot Boys had been waiting at that corner. Marko had steeled himself and passed through their ranks. When he was ten yards up Brassey Street, he looked back. They were following. He hadn't lingered. He scorched up Brassey Street, across a patch of waste and into Upper Stanhope Street. The Boot Boys had lost him on the waste: Marko was too fast for them. They never needed to run as fast as he had to. They had no pigs or Boot Boys to give them running practice and that made them flat and slow.

               Marko's head was splitting. There were two Boot Boys sitting on the steps of a tenement.