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your fists. Like your—
    Like my dad.
    When Marshall O’Connor leaves school, he will go to prison
say those idiot teachers.
    I stride over to Mustaph’s door and pick up his satchel. It’s packed full of spray cans.
    Mus, let’s go and do somethin’. Let’s go do some decoratin’
.
    Mustaph the mos’ talented graffiti artist I ever seen. It’s the only thing keep that boy awake. All of the best walls in our postcode are his work. He famous for it.
    He sighs and shrugs.
I’ll get dressed
.
    While I’m waitin’ for him, I catch one of them bugs crawlin’ roun’ my hips. I dunno whether it’s one of Mustaph’s or one of mine. I squish it. Pop like bubble-wrap. Sploosh . Sniff my finger. It stinks. Same stink as Soft Stuart’s flat when the meat men carried him out feet first.
    Five minutes later, we’re outta there.

Can You Tell What It Is Yet?
    We walk down, seven floors. Even when not workin’, the lift is foul. By the lift door on the ground floor it smell like the last person to use it dropped their kebab, vomitted, and did both kinds of toilet, before the door jammed shut behind them.
    Strike that. Before the door jammed shut with them STILL inside.
    Bins ain’t much better. We got rubbish chutes blocked for as long as I can remember, and the metal communal bins never get emptied on time. If I let Sabre loose round here, in ten minutes he come back with a rat in his jaws.
    We stroll through the small playground next to The Finger. The swings have all been torn off their frames, and the slide been uprooted and pushed over so it lyin’ on its side. Someone taken an axe to the roundabout. Whole place look like some fool’s mouth after they had their teeth smashed in.
    Not all the neighbourhood be a bombsite. We stroll five minutes further till we get to the playground on the other side of the infant school, near the big park. We go pass through it, fillin’ up with littl’uns from the school, swarmin’ over all the rope swings and slides, makin’ the most of the neverendin’ summer. Hearin’ their laughin’ and screechin’ bring back good vibes straight away. I can see even Mustapha losin’ himself in a dopey grin. The toddlers are clamberin’ over the rope frame like mini Spider-Men. The mums and dads are all chillin’ on the benches, chattin’ and swappin’ gossip.
    Even though there are a zillion kids aroun’ I don’ have Sabre on no lead, on account of him bein’ so well-trained. He always come when called, and if I’m clickin’ him to heel he sticks close as a stalker. When I have to, I hook him onto the extendable leash, so he can run wild and free. Only problem is, he so excitable he ties people up, runnin’ all aroun’ them. Once he went chasin’ a squirrel and ended up tyin’ himself in knots roun’ a bunch of trees. He fed me that dumb googie-eyed look dogs get when they remember how titchy their brains are. Stick out his tongue and pant.
    We stroll past a poster tacked to a tree, one of them LOST DOG appeals. Jimbob. Family pit bull. Pure bred. Will come if you call his name or offer crisps. Generous reward .
    Dogs and cats been goin’ missin’ a lot these days. Sis reckon thieves are temptin’ them into the backs of vans, sellin’ them for big profit. People will steal anythin’ round these parts, even your dog. Anybody try and take Sabes goin’ to have me to mess with.
    School chuckin’ out time is safest time for a spot of graffitiin’ ’cos this is when you is most invisible. Think about it. Imagine you are a officer of the law, yeah? It midnight, streets is empty, and you see two youth with hoods up, skulkin’ along with backpacks. Up to no good business, for sure. Least you goin’ to do is a Stop and Search. Three thirty, four in the afternoon, streets is teemin’ with kids, ain’t no one gonna take no notice, long as there’s no gang fights breakin’ out. Safe, yeah?
    So we’s headin’ for a big communal wall far side of the playin’ fields.