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I debated rolling mine up, too, but decided against it. Iā€™d look stupid with the shoes I had on.

I took a deep breath and left the bench. I almost had to run to catch up with him; his legs moved fast, as though he was already being followed by someone and was trying to get away.

I tried not to use reflections as much as I had in the past. Instead, I concentrated on a small cross tattooed on the back of his neck. He had various other tattoos down the backs of his arms, including a love heart with an arrow through it and a coat of armour.

I tracked him at a steady pace, though not easily. I had never followed anyone who walked as fast as he did or swung their arms about from side to side so viciously. We didnā€™t have many skinheads in town; however, I had seen a whole horde of them in Doncaster, hanging around the big shopping centre, smoking, and mouthing off at people. The womenā€™s heads were shaved, too, but they kept a fringe at the front with long strands of hair over their ears and long from the napes of their necks down. I had no idea what the style was meant to represent.

I followed him until he went into the record shop. Normally, I wouldnā€™t follow someone into a shop. Instead, I would linger outside, pretending to browse the items in the window until they either came out or someone else caught my eye. This time, I decided I may as well go in. I had nothing to lose.

Downstairs was a stationary shop and upstairs was the record shop. The stairs were to the left as you walked in; I heard him stomping his boots on them. The woman behind the counter muttered ā€œUnbelievableā€¦ā€ and shook her head.

I climbed the stairs when I could no longer hear his footsteps pounding their way up. When I reached the top, I saw the owner stood behind the counter facing the records, which were set in such a way he could see if anyone was trying to steal one. He wore a flowered shirt and a flat cap; an odd combination.

I scanned the shop left and right to see where The Skinhead had gone. He was stood to my left at the end of the aisle where the Sā€™swere, most likely browsing the Ska records. I wouldnā€™t have thought him a lover of swing or soul. I walked the long way round to look at the records opposite him which were the end of the Rā€™s.

As I strolled around, I glanced up at the walls to view all the posters dotted about which I hadnā€™t looked at before. A poster of a red Ferraricaught my eye. Pinned next to it was a chart poster for the week, plus numerous others of bands such asDuran Duran and Spandau Ballet. Iā€™d only seen them before in Smash Hits and NME.

I arrived opposite The Skinhead, though I didnā€™t sneak a peek. I wasnā€™t ready for the next step yet, and there was nothing reflective around to glance at him with.

I could hear him flicking through the sleeves, then every so often he would pick one out. I set my carrier bag down between my feet and copied his actions, flicking through my own section, and when he picked one out, I did too. After I put the third record back, I carried on pretending to scan through them, but The Skinhead didnā€™t make a sound.

ā€˜Oi, weirdo.ā€™

I stopped. I knew he was talking to me. Who else would he be saying that to? I grabbed my bag, gripping it tightly, and repositioned the mirrors with my other arm as I shuffled down towards the Pā€™s, ignoring him.

ā€˜Oi, ya weirdo. Why wonā€™t you look at me?ā€™ he asked.

I had to leave, and sharpish. I couldnā€™t go back the way I came round the stacks; it would take too long. There was nothing I could do except run past him.

I didnā€™t look at him or the shop owner as I moved, but I sensed the heat from The Skinheadā€™s eyes burning into me as I dashed past him to the foot of the stairs. I went down two at a time and exited the shop.

That was a close one, I told myself as I walked down the street, swinging my bag to calm my nerves. It had been a disaster, and I missed looking in reflections; without them, I lost what was going on around me. That had been the whole reason I never followed anyone into places. There were no guarantees of any reflective surfaces or mirrors for me to use.

I hurried along, keeping a keen eye on the reflections as I walked. I thought I heard footsteps approaching behind me, but I didnā€™t dare look over my shoulder for fear of my eyes meeting anotherā€™s. It was difficult to see anything in the shop windows to my right.

PC Williamsā€™s warning came alive in my head: ā€˜You know, if you end up following any of them ruffians and they spot you, youā€™ll be in for a kicking.ā€™

The footsteps got louder and nearer. I never expected the constable to be right. Iā€™d always tried to be so careful, and Iā€™d taken a massive risk today, all because of the happiness that Iā€™d let seep into my soul.

An incredible force struck the middle of my back. I went sprawling onto the pavement, and the mirrors under my arm smashed, sending shards everywhere. I lost the grip on my bag as The Skinhead started kicking me. I curled into a ball, covered my head with my arms, and waited. It couldnā€™t have lasted more than ten seconds, as people started yelling around me. He only managed to get three decent kicks in.

ā€˜Donā€™t let me catch you near me again, ya weirdo,ā€™ he snarled, then spat. Thankfully, it didnā€™t land on me. I peeked out through my fingers, spying his back retreating through

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