The woman was rolling on the ground, screaming and smashing the dirt with her fists. A man was trying to calm her. In the middle of the road was a pair of child’s trainers, almost side by side. A policeman was taking photos as passersby looked on.
As I drove by slowly, I pieced together what had happened. There had been a hit-and-run on a long stretch of road where a junction is hidden in trees. There’s a shop on the corner and the victim—a boy—lived there with his aunt during the school week.
Shortly before I came upon the accident, a black car had overtaken me on a blind bend and sped away. Farther down the road, after the accident scene, I spotted the car again. Two men were getting out of it, walking to a white car with a smashed windscreen and a dented bonnet. I slowed and wound down the window.
“Who are you and where do you live?” one of the men asked. I drove off quickly.
The boy died on the way to hospital. The policeman who had taken him there was back at his desk when the culprit was handed in by his gangster friends. They had a gambling den round the back of the mountain. But it wasn’t worth risking it for one of their gang who had been so stupid.
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