John wiped his mouth with a handful of tissues and chucked them in the toilet bowl on top of the undigested remains of the previous night’s doner kebab. The burning sensation rising up his oesophagus, courtesy of extra chilli sauce, brought on another wave of nausea, but his stomach was empty, so he flushed the toilet and headed over to the basin. First things first- wash his teeth to remove any trace of lager from his breath. Next- deal with the bloodshot eyes staring back from the mirror. He found drops in the bathroom cabinet and squeezed a few into each eye, blinking to ease the stinging. Finally, a handful of gel through his hair and a quick shave to hide the flecks of grey in his stubble.

The taxi was booked for 8am, allowing nearly 15 minutes for a breakfast consisting of whatever leftovers he could find in the fridge. Not much as it turned out, so he devoured a couple of soft digestives to settle his tummy while he waited for the kettle to boil.

His phone pinged just as he tipped a heaped spoon of coffee granules into the hot water. Fucking taxi drivers, always early. The first sip burned his mouth, so he dumped the rest of the cup in the sink and headed for the coat stand. Time to don the disguise: a cap pulled down over his eyes and a pair of sunglasses. Turning to open the front door, he glimpsed the lounge. A half-eaten pizza sat on the couch, surrounded by empty beer bottles. Must have ordered it when he got home because the chippy on the corner only serves burgers and kebabs. At least that was dinner sorted.

The morning sun was low and bright, so just as well John was wearing sunglasses. He checked left and right and didn’t see any neighbours or unfamiliar faces, so he closed the door and limped over to the taxi, as fast as his bloody knee would allow. Sinking into the back seat, he caught his breath.

‘Pump up the aircon please mate.’

The driver pulled off and John felt like his stomach got left behind. He shut his eyes and picked at a cuticle, but nothing could distract from the fear that he could throw up at any minute. Schoolboy error not feeding a hangover, a mistake he’d never made before training. But the internal rebuke was interrupted as the taxi swerved right, sending John flailing in the back seat.

‘Mate, slow down,’ he pleaded.

‘Sorry, sir,’ replied an Indian accent, ‘but I was going less than 20 miles per hour. Maybe it would help if you put on your seatbelt.’

It probably wouldn’t. The last thing John needed was to feel constrained. So he grabbed hold of the door handle with a sweaty palm to steady himself.

The taxi pulled up outside a newsagent and John clambered out. He shuffled over to the wall and bent over, only to retch. The driver’s patience ran out when another fare came up, so John took a £20 note out of his pocket and dropped it on the passenger seat.

Food was the next priority. As he opened the shop door, his phone rang. Greene’s solicitors. John sighed and answered.

‘Morning mate, just arrived. Early an’ all.’

‘Jolly good. That’s an auspicious start. Remember, you can’t afford to fuck up this week. I won’t be getting any more favours from the judge.’

‘I know.’

‘Are you teetotal?’ asked the solicitor.

‘If you mean sober, pretty much.’

‘Close enough. At least you made it out of bed his morning.’

‘You missed your calling, Humphrey.’

‘How so, chap?’

‘You’re a natural motivator. You make Fergie sound like a librarian.’

Humphrey bellowed as John hung up as headed into the newsagent. The shelves were stacked with salty snacks, chocolate bars and sweets, none of which would put a dent in his hangover. His body needed something more substantial to survive until lunch. Venturing deeper, the aroma of freshly baked pastry hit him. If it enclosed ground pork, breakfast was sorted.

He had devoured most of the first sausage roll before leaving the shop. A loud burp erupted from the bottom of his belly as a lady wearing a bright green kaftan with matching headscarf passed. She glared, and John raised his hand to apologise without making eye contact. So much for staying incognito.

The second sausage roll left a metallic aftertaste and on closer inspection, the meat looked a little pink. The last thing he needed this week was food poisoning, so he chucked it in the bin and washed the taste out of his mouth with a swig of Sprite.

John checked his watch. 8.45am. The instructions from the council were to meet at St Bartholomew’s Church in Bermondsey at 9.00 AM. Right opposite a boozer he used to frequent when he was trying to evade the gaffer’s spot checks. Far too rough for that prick, even if he had a chance of catching John with a pint to his lips.

A quick glance in the window confirmed his disguise was still intact, so he set off. The probation officer was waiting outside the church when he arrived. About the same age as John, tall with a square head and dressed in the unofficial uniform of a council employee: grey slacks, black shoes and a short sleeve white shirt. He introduced himself as Steven.

‘Alright, Steve,’ said John.

‘I prefer Steven,’ came the reply.

John nodded to acknowledge the request and decided to skip the small talk. As his gaze drifted to the pub, a girl in her late teens approached, dressed in a tracksuit a couple of sizes too big. Steven gestured to lower her hood, revealing a cluster of short dreadlocks. She removed a pod from her left ear and identified herself as Chisolm, but John didn’t catch a surname.

‘Right then,’ announced Steven, as he checked his watch. ‘Just after 9.00am, so we’re running behind. A warning that tardiness won’t be tolerated.’

He set off toward the river taking long strides that gave him a substantial head start. John gestured for Chisolm to go ahead, which she ignored. A bad omen, considering they were spending the next five days together. In fact, John couldn’t have ended up with a less compatible coworker.

Teenage girls were a mystery; he struggled to engage with his own daughter, who was roughly the same age, and they had something in common. Her mother, mainly, but nonetheless.

Chisolm popped the bud back in and pulled up her hood. That was the problem with kids these days. No social skills. John blamed the parents for not instilling proper values or at least respect for their elders. If he had behaved like that when he was growing up, his old man would’ve clipped him around the earhole. Although, in fairness, this kid probably didn’t have a dad.

Steven stopped outside a roofing supplier and waited for John and Chisom, a trembling right leg betraying his impatience. After they caught up, Steven recited a script he must have performed many times before.

‘Here’s the assignment. Over the next five days, you’ll need to remove the graffiti from this wall using equipment provided to you by the council.’

A van pulled up just as Steven completed the sentence.

A heavy bloke with a stained polo shirt hanging below his waist clambered out and unloaded steel wool, overalls, gloves and cans of WD-40. The final piece of kit was a pressure washer which he dragged over to a short post featuring a yellow ‘H’ plate. He removed the hydrant cover with a key and plugged in the hose. When he finished, he nodded at Steven and took a long, hard look at John, who pretended he didn’t notice.

Steven continued his speech.

‘The overalls are optional, but I highly recommend using them as the council won’t reimburse you for any damage to your clothes. The gloves are a health and safety requirement because the steel wool can chafe the skin on your hands, especially when applying the force needed to remove graffiti.’

Steven paused to deliver a brief demonstration, and John grimaced at the amount of effort required. His headache had plateaued after lining his stomach, but it had deteriorated as the effect of his breakfast wore off.

The rest of the instructions consisted of a warning about staying hydrated and another reminder about punctuality. After sharing his phone number and offering the opportunity to ask any further questions, Steven hurried off to his next appointment.

‘Proper laugh that Steve, in’ he?’ joked John as he struggled into a set of overalls, but Chisolm either didn’t hear or ignored him. Her hood was still up, and those bloody buds were probably in her ears. No respect whatsoever.

John looked at the wall. It was about six feet high and 15 feet long and covered in multi-coloured graffiti. Most of it seemed to be nicknames, but there was also a bird flying out of a cage and an upside down key. Shame to remove it really, brightened up a drab patch of southeast London. On the other hand, with a team of two working on it, the job shouldn’t take a full week.

Chisolm knelt at the left corner of the wall, sprayed some WD-40 onto the graffiti and started scrubbing. Given her disinterest in conversing, John started at the far end, and his optimism quickly faded. The paint was stubborn, taking nearly half an hour to clean a section measuring a square foot. Short of breath and with a throbbing head, he lent against the wall. But any hope of taking a break evaporated when he noticed Chisholm glaring at him.

The next patch was no easier, so he summoned up more energy. The paint shifted, but a few drops of oil splashed onto his face.

‘Fuck!’

He tore off the gloves and wiped the side of his nose with the sleeve of his overalls. Those drops landed too close to his eyes. Maybe the council should have issued goggles.

John let out a long sigh. A pounding headache, a ball ache of a job and an insolent youth. Community service wasn’t meant to be fun, but it couldn’t have got off to a worse start. As he ran his hand through his hair, he detected a slight movement to his left. Chisolm’s hooded head turned back to the wall. Hold on, did she just…

‘Don’t suck your teeth at me!’ he warned without response. Cheek of her.

Tuesday

John tilted his face to bask in the sun. Training in spring used to be a joy because the cold, dark winters were behind them. To make things even better, today’s hangover had cleared up after breakfast so he could…

‘Oi, what are you doing?’

John jerked around and realised for the first time in over 24 hours, Chisolm had addressed him. She maintained eye contact, too, although she was scowling.

‘Just taking in some rays. Didn’t realise I needed permission.’

‘C’mon man, get back to work.’

‘Calm down, we’re flying. We’ll be done by Thursday at this rate.’

John was right. After a bit of trial and error, they had honed their technique and made rapid progress. More than a third of the wall was already clear, so finishing early was a distinct possibility.

‘Not with you taking breaks, we won’t. And I don’t want no trouble from that council bloke.’

John rolled his eyes but conceded. He put on his gloves on and started scrubbing again. But now that Chisolm had broken her silence, there might be room for small talk.

‘So if you’re such a good girl, what you doing here?’ She ignored him. Maybe not.

‘Come on. Time will pass quicker if we have a natter.’ ‘Not for me!’

‘Then humour me,’ he pleaded. ‘Jesus wept. You’re harder work than my ex-missus.’

‘I didn’t do nothing wrong.’

‘Well, I did. Got done for drink driving. Judge threw the book at me cause it wasn’t the first time, and I was a bit too close to a primary school when I got pulled over.’

Chisolm stopped what she was doing and glared at him.

‘Pack it in. Don’t need you givin’ me grief an’ all!’

She shook her head and returned her attention to the graffiti.

‘So how’d you end up with community service then?’

‘Wrong place, wrong time,’ she explained. ‘That’s a crime, as far as the feds are concerned.’

‘What’d you mean?’

‘My mates robbed a shop and legged it. I did nothing wrong, so I didn’t run. But when the police showed up, the owner pointed me out. They arrested me for being party to the crime.’

‘That’s pretty shit alright.’ John searched for something to say but couldn’t come up with anything. Nothing about Chisolm suggested she’d welcome his pity.

‘Why are you so worried about this?’ he eventually asked, nodding at the wall. ‘Far as I’m concerned, let’s get it done and get on with our lives.’

‘Easy for you. You can go back to your nice house and your nice life. But if I fuck up, I’m back in the system. No second chances. Z-E-R-O tolerance.’

Wednesday

John stepped away from the wall. Only a third to go.

Happy days. He unzipped the top half of his overalls, letting them hang from his waist, and sat down in the shade. Today’s lunch: a chicken salad sandwich and a bottle of Sprite followed by a cheeky Twix. The chicken was rubbery and the Sprite lukewarm, but the Twix would provide a sugar hit to overcome the early afternoon lull.

Chisolm unzipped her bag and took out a football. She threw the ball against the wall and started volleying it back and forth until she lost control. The ball rolled over to John, who balanced it on his foot and flicked it to her.

Chisholm did a couple of keepy uppies then let the ball bounce outside her left leg and caught it on the way back up with the lateral side of her left foot. Challenge accepted. John got to his feet, sending crumbs scattering across the footpath. The overalls had to come off, leaving him in his shorts and a sweaty t-shirt.

‘On the ‘ead’

Chisolm chipped the ball and it landed on John’s forehead, where he balanced it for a few seconds before letting it roll down his back. But he missed the backheel.

‘So close!’ said Chisolm, repressing a chuckle. ‘Your turn,’ retorted John.

‘You stand there,’ she instructed. ‘Ok, but I’m not the most mobile.’

‘It won’t make any difference. Saka burned the Spurs defence with this last weekend.’

Chisolm jogged at John, and he went to tackle her in slow motion. She juggled the ball between her feet and let it run behind her left leg. Before John reacted, she regained control and swerved around him with the ball at her feet. By the time he pivoted, she was scoring an imaginary goal against the wall.

‘Not bad.’

‘Saka’s a baller. I always try his tricks in games.’ ‘Why’d you feel the need to copy him?’ asked John?

‘Cause he kills. Don’t you watch the Premier League?’ she answered.

‘Why try bein’ someone else?’

Chisolm’s forehead wrinkled, and she squinted her eyes. ‘He’s made it. That’s where I want to be.’

‘But why copy Saka or Stones or whoever? From what I’ve seen, you’ve got the raw talent. You should focus on being yourself.’

Chisolm’s gaze dropped to the ball as she rolled it under her foot.

‘Just saying.’ John picked up his overalls off the path. ‘What do I know, anyway? I’m an old git. Let’s get back to work.’

Thursday

John and Chisholm sat in the shade, leaning against a wall that was nearly clear, finishing ham and cheese sandwiches. Two bottles of Lucozade rested between them and a sharing bag of salt and vinegar crisps, torn open along the side. John popped his wrapper into a makeshift bin and handed it to Chisholm, who did the same.

‘Thanks again,’ said Chisolm.

They put on the overalls and gloves, and John started scrubbing the last bit of paint. Sod’s law that it would be the hardest. Once it was gone, he stepped back and was admiring his work when a stream of water bounced off the wall into his face.

‘What the fuck?’

He spun around to find Chisolm standing by the power washer, struggling to contain her glee.

‘Cheeky cow!’

Two blokes fell out of the pub across the road as John dried his eyes. One of them tried to light a cigarette but couldn’t stop swaying long enough for the flame to ignite the tobacco. It was like a game of cat and mouse. John watched, partly amused, partly sympathetic, partly jealous. He took off his cap to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

‘Alright mate!’

Fuck. After going an entire week undetected, someone recognised him at the last minute.

‘Who’s that, Bob?’

‘It’s good old John Ursell, south London’s very own Maldini.’

John winced.

‘Of course it is. What you up to son?’

Before having a chance to answer, the council van pulled up to collect the equipment.

‘Hold on a sec. You been cleaning that wall! Been a naughty boy then?’

‘How pissed up did you get this time, Johnny?’ chimed in his mate. ‘Or did you finally get done for nicking a living at the Den?’

Chisholm wanted to know what the bloke meant, but John waved her off.

‘Fucking right. He deserved to get done for that. Barely made the bench that last season, but still took a pay cheque week in, week out.’

‘I tore a cruciate ligament,’ John countered. ‘What did you expect me to do?’

‘You should have fucking retired rather than milk us.’ John sighed.

‘So I wasn’t owed that much after getting the club promoted to Premier League?’

‘Yeah, and you were also one of the reasons we came straight back down.’

‘Oi, why don’t you mind your own business?’ Chisolm shouted at the lads.

‘Leave it,’ John told her.

‘Look ‘ere Bob, Johnny needs some young bird to stand up for him.’

They burst out laughing.

‘Why don’t you fuck off mate. You’ve had a laugh, now piss off,’ said John, his patience wearing thin.

‘I’m quite enjoying myself. What about you, Bob?

John glared at the blokes as Bob nodded his agreement. ‘Nicked a living as a footballer. And now you’re just good for cleaning graffiti. Serves you right, you cunt.’

John limped onto the road, batting away Chisolm as she tried to stop him. Bob met him halfway across and they squared up.

‘That’s fuckin out of order!’ roared John. ‘Go on then, do something about it.’

Before John reacted, Chisolm appeared by his side.

‘John, leave it. These bums ain’t worth it.’

‘Who are you calling a bum?’ said Bob as he pushed Chisolm away.

John grabbed Bob by his shirt and rammed his forehead into his nose, a crunch confirming that he caught the right spot. Bob stumbled back a few steps and landed on his backside. A car screeched to a halt, distracting John while Bob’s mate raced across the road and tackled him. They grappled on the ground as Steven scampered over to them.

‘It’s a criminal offense to interfere with someone carrying out a community order!’ Steven screamed, catching everyone by surprise. ‘I’m calling the police,’ he added in a more measured tone, but breathing heavily.

Bob and his mate didn’t want to press charges, so they picked themselves up and slunk off, Bob holding a dirty hanky to his bloody nose. John thanked Steven for intervening, who shook his head.

‘You know I have no choice but to report this to the magistrate’s court?’

John put his hands on the back of his neck. Last chance, those were the words his solicitor had used. He wandered over to the side of the road and kicked out at the kerb. By the time he looked up, Chisolm was walking away, hooded up.

By Keith McGuinness

online fiction short fiction