Sunday afternoon, I’m hanging with the guys in somebody’s muddy alleyway, wishing Dad hadn’t answered the door to them after I’d told him not to.

‘What’s this?’ I ask, as Imran tosses a drawstring gym bag at my feet. It lands with a metallic clang. Inside are shiny cans of spray paint and a small packet of caps. I look up at Imran, but already know the answer to my next question.

‘That gang tag you come up with for DedManz? You’re gonna do a nice big one right there.’ He points at a pristine double garage door, the roller kind made of thick strips of metal.

‘Who lives there?’ I ask. Vandalizing somebody’s property is next level, but I can’t think of a way out of it. Delay tactics are the best I’ve got.

‘Shah Rukh Khan,’ Imran says sarcastically. ‘Just do your thing, and we can bounce.’ He pulls out his designer vape pen and starts puffing mini rings that smell like watermelon.

‘How do you even do that?’ Daevon asks.

‘Double Os? That ain’t nothing. Watch this,’ Imran says, loading his lungs with vape.

We stand back and give the man some room. With luck, Imran’s ego will get so bloated, he’ll forget this tagging madness, and we can go chicken shop.

Imran opens his mouth and blows a big-ass cloud of steam. His hands fly out, sculpting it into a white sphere. Without missing a beat, he surrounds it with a stream of mini rings, then sweeping his hands like Mandrake the Magician, creates a vape solar system before the whole thing dissipates.

I gasp. ‘Man, that is fire!’

‘One hunna,’ Noah agrees, filming it on his phone.

Imran laps up the praise, then tucks his vape pen inside his leather jacket, and my heart sinks. ‘All right, Ilyas. Back to work, my younger.’

‘I know the perfect place,’ I say, turning on my salesman pitch with what I hope is a winning smile. ‘Big massive wall, peng black finish—’

Imran’s fists make bunches out of my hoody, yanking me so close, I’m afraid he’s going to headbutt me. ‘Stop pissing about and get spraying or I’mma paint this garage door with your brains. You feel me?’

‘Hey,’ Daevon says, placing a restraining hand on Imran’s shoulder.

Imran glares for a second longer, then releases me. ‘You got five minutes.’ He sets the timer on his Apple Watch.

I look back and forth, searching for a way out of this mess. Wish I was PakCore in real life. Right now I’d use my amazing parkour skills: flip myself up on to the roof of the garage, take a running leap on to the next one, scuttle along the corrugated metal and—

‘Do it!’ Imran booms, jets of vapour blasting out of the double barrel of his nose and the corners of his mouth. The man looks like Satan.

I obediently flip the cap off a can and give it a good shake. The glass bead rattles around inside, setting my teeth on edge. Experimentally, I press the top. A fine mist of brown squirts out and splatters the silver surface of the garage door. I swirl the can in circles to get the basic head shape down, getting a feel for the pressure. Noah whoops, pulling a bottle of vodka out of his backpack. Next, I grab the red can for the baseball cap, testing it with the gentlest tap. Thick red paint, dark as congealed blood, oozes out. Harder to control than the brown, but changing to a super-skinny cap fixes that. By the time I grab the gold, I’m actually enjoying myself. My artistic soul handsprings and backflips across this huge canvas.

‘Call me Pak-Asso, cos I’m bringing desi back,’ I quip, totally in the zone.

‘Listen to this one!’ Imran says, reaching out for Noah’s bottle of vodka.

‘Pick up the pace, cuz …’ Daevon says, his voice as tense as a bowstring.

‘You all need to hush yourselves,’ I tell him, living in the canvas. ‘Art cannot be rushed.’

Then I hear it. A door creaking open in the distance, somewhere beyond the wooden fence. It takes a moment for me to realize the owner of this garage door – the one I’m tagging – is approaching.

‘Oh shit!’ I whisper, tossing the cans back in the bag.

Imran’s eyes drill into me. ‘Finish it.’ He shoves me so hard, I nearly kiss the wet paint.

With no choice but to continue, I spray on the D and the M, my heart hammering in my chest. The sound of slippered footfall grows louder.

‘Who’s there?’ asks a man on the other side of the fence.

Imran’s fingers curl over my shoulder like lever arches, fixing me in place. I can barely see through the sweat waterfalling over my eyes, but I keep going, adding accents and highlights.

‘I’m warning you! I’ve got a gun!’ the owner shouts, and suddenly I recognize the voice and nearly piss myself. It’s Mr Gordon, my old maths teacher.

Imran’s fingers burrow under my collarbone sending fresh jolts of pain skirting across my chest. Completing the tag, I hurriedly toss the cans back in the bag.

The side gate begins to rattle as multiple bolts are pulled back, each one like a gunshot. ‘Who’s there?’

Daevon’s hand finds mine, and he tugs. Suddenly I’m stumbling after him, being dragged away from the scene of my crime. Imran swings the bag of cans over his shoulder and runs like the Flash, practically hurdling over fences as he makes a smooth getaway. Noah charges up behind, blindsiding me with a massive shove. I catapult into some squelching mud, practically bodysurfing over it as the metallic scent of rain and rotting leaves fills my nose. Noah cackles, running in the opposite direction, shouting the filthiest cusses about Gordon’s wife. Clammy mud clings to me like a whale’s tongue, swallowing my hands and sucking at my jeans.

‘Get up, you idiot!’ Daevon hisses, yanking me to my feet. ‘Run!’

‘YAAARGH!’ roars Gordon, finally charging into the driveway.

My heart crashes in my chest when I see his rifle. Then the illusion fades. Mr Gordon is wearing a dark red dressing gown over stripy pyjamas and brandishing nothing more dangerous than a brolly. At any other time, I’d have died laughing. Daevon throws my hood over my face, spurring me on.

‘I’ve got you n-OOOOOOOW!’ Mr Gordon yells in surprise as he slips and goes down. His back hits the wet earth with a slap, and his grandad slippers go flying. The umbrella pops open. Gordon wriggles about in the mire, an overturned woodlouse trying to right itself.

‘Daev, we should help …’ I say, slowing down.

‘Help!’ Gordon wails. ‘Somebody help me, please! I’ve broken my back!’

‘Keep moving!’ Daevon shouts, shoving me. ‘Man’s bluffing.’

As I pump my legs, keeping pace with Daevon, I realize I’ve been played. Imran must have got into another argument with Gordon at school – something worse than the usual – and this was his idea of payback. Only now I’m an accessory. And if Gordon’s not faking, if his back is legit broken, I can add GBH to my growing list of crimes.