
After the Riots
David Hunter
It was a strange day. Quiet. The sort of quiet you get when everyone holds their breath. Liverpool; after the fighting and before the Garden Festival. Picking up the pieces. Smelling of smoke and adrenalin.
Walking down Princes Avenue, police pairs on every corner. Fresh faces drafted into a battle zone they didn't understand. Hanging around in the urban decay, quietly chatting about sheep on the fells and frightening old ladies with their aggressive politeness. ... (continues)


