Crime in the newspapers doesn’t seem real. Most of it doesn’t, at least. Muggings. Robberies. Credit card fraud. The odd murder, the occasional rape. Seen it all before. It’s callous to say it maybe but there’s so much of it about that any residue of sympathy we may once have felt for the victims of many of our society’s daily outrages has been long ago blunted by constant exposure, endless repetition. Sure, we get riled by the latest ‘thing’ - feral 14 year olds beating 40 year old family men to a pulp, for example - and then the outrage - and the sense of enraged impotence - feels very real for a while. But - and I’m sure our blessed ‘leaders’ are counting on this - helpless in our fury and, simultaneously, hopeless of ever purging ourselves of it we instead allow ourselves to gradually grow numb to it and, in the end, more or less, stop caring.
It may only be when the crimes that are normally so work-a-day are carried out in one’s own neighbourhood that their influence manages to creep under the guard of acquiescent fatalism so many of us live behind.
Last weekend I needed to fill the car but my nearest petrol station was surrounded by a flimsy - but, psychologically, impenetrable - police cordon. Those lengths of tape - the thin blue (and white) line - hid nothing and, beyond the boundary they created, the men in white jumpsuits, their heads covered, told us everything we needed to know without saying a word. Someone - in our local petrol station - had been murdered.
This week, once again needing petrol, that same garage was now open but only dispensing diesel. As I drove to my next local blue and white tape once again thwarted me as armed police directed traffic past, encouraging us to resist slowing and looking.
Today, succumbing to my curiosity, I went to a newsagent and bought something I would never normally buy. A local newspaper.
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