Januariad

Damien goes out when there’s nothing on the telly. He selects a single paint can from the collection he keeps in his mother’s drinks cabinet, slipping it into the pocket of his baggy trousers before quitting the house.

He walks a little bird-like. A stunted sort of a strut that his limbs aren’t quite able for. He might hail twenty people before reaching his destination, depending on the night, the cold, the route he’s chosen. He has never not walked these roads. The weather doesn’t matter to Damien. Rain drips uninhibited from his greased fringe. If the cold hurts he doesn’t show it. The only thing that bothers him is a wet canvas.

Most of his work is quickly painted over. He expects this, and is unfazed. He allows himself a little swell of satisfaction when he sees a piece still proudly visible after a fortnight, but the obliteration bothers him barely at all. It’s ongoing. His commitment is a kind of permanence.

At the edge of the park he finds a freshly-painted park bench. An older tag can still be be made out under the thickly-daubed white, but only if you knew it was there. This bench has taken a lot of coats in recent months. Its edges are rounded with the mounting layers.

Damien pulls out the can and, without pausing to look around him, sets to spraying. He hunkers down to even out the application. The letterforms are wide and rounded, inexpert but regular. The style is recognisable to anyone from the area, as is the simple, unadorned, endlessly repeated message. ‘NIGGERS OUT.’ Damienis finished in forty seconds, and pockets the can as he walks away. Down the street he sees a postbox still bearing last week’s work, and a small, simple smile plays over his pallid face.