She scrubs, elbow aching, willing the words to disappear. The paint is smudging, but putting up one hell of a resistance. It wants to stay on the headstone. It wants everyone to read what it says.
MISHA THE CREEPER GOES WITH THE DEAD
At least Granddad hasn’t seen it yet. This one, or the other two. It would upset him a lot. Anger is a hard rock in her heart, jagged and sore. Vic did this. Him, or one of his mates. Which is the same thing. Twice in twenty-four hours they’ve invaded. Her summer of peace is over, it seems. Vic has her squarely in his sights, and if doesn’t let up? She’ll have to do something about it.
Eight says so.
Her arm refuses to do any more without a break, and she relents. A couple of minutes won’t harm. Granddad’s off out to the supermarket doing the weekly shop. He’ll be gone a while. He finds the amount of choice overwhelming, and fascinating.
She sits, looks to the sky from this vantage point halfway up the hill. Clouds are piling up on top of themselves, layer upon plump layer of dark grey bundles. It’ll come down in torrents today, muddy streams weaving through the graves. It means the day’s practical lesson will be even more of a chore, because Granddad won’t allow the elements to cause any delays. He always says the timetable is too tight to change, and her poor attention span over the last few nights isn’t helping. She refuses to use the phrase ‘it’s not fair’ because that’s the kind of whiney phrase she hears the other kids say, but the refusal doesn’t alter how she feels.
It just isn’t fair.
She shouldn’t have to clean this up. That arsehole Vic should.
‘I’ll bury you, Vic Sweet. One day I’ll bury you, and I’ll laugh while I’m doing it.’
It’s a soothing thought.
That boy again. He’s moving slowly along the southern railings. He’s stretching something. What is he up to? Misha’s feeling fiery, so today’s the day. She makes her way down the hill. The graffiti can wait a little while longer.