Fresh Paint

NOTE: Some horror elements. Exploration of men's mental health themes.

Fresh Paint

By Mark Hedley

DOOF, DOOF, DOOF, DOOF.

It felt like someone was driving past with a sub-woofer in their car.

DOOF, DOOF, DOOF, DOOF.

His heart was banging against his chest panicked, trying to escape his body.

How could it be?

They had buried him three days ago. That was something Jason was sure of.

He had been there with the whole crew, all seven of the remaining roster. They had huddled around each other wearing ill fitting, mostly borrowed clothes. They looked like juvenile offenders trying to convince a judge that their crew were just misguided, loveable rogues rather than habitual criminals.

He remembered the looks they had received from Spat’s family members, the resentful hate filled glares. They were culprits. They were not welcome.

He could almost feel the pain in his throat still. The lump, unable to swallow. He remembered wishing one of the boys would start crying, so he could allow himself to cry also. He didn’t want to be the first to break down. Even when you were stood beside one of your best friends, laying in a closed casket, you didn’t want to be seen as weak.

He had been there. He watched the casket being lowered into the ground, that was a certainty.

What he could not be certain of, was what he had just seen. What he thought he had just seen.

As he had stood leaning against a brick wall, blowing smoke from his nostrils, he noticed someone down on the tracks, walking toward the bridge. Before he got a chance to get a good look, they had disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel.

When he saw the figure, dressed in all black clothing, the word, his dead friends name appeared in his mind, unmistakably.

It was ‘SPAT’.

He recognized the walk, swaggering, ready for anything. The tall, slender frame. He’d seen him from a distance hundreds of times, approaching, walking away, running. It had to be him.

Jason glanced around the platform. There were a few kids in uniform, stragglers that had hung around the city after school, met friends, gone for burgers. There were some older ladies with shopping. A wino swaying like tall grass in the breeze. Nobody would care if he jumped onto the tracks, let alone try and stop him.

He glanced up and down the tracks and when he saw no trains approaching, he jumped down and crossed over the first two lines which carried passenger trains. He turned left on the third line, the freight line and started walking toward the shadowy, concrete maw of the bridge.

As he approached the entrance to the bridge he tried to compose himself, but his heart was still thumping, his face felt numb. He wasn’t used to feeling fear when he roamed the tracks, the train lines and bridges were his second home and his crew spent a lot of time under the bridges and hanging around the stations drinking, tagging.

He stood at the threshold of the bridge and squinted into the darkness.

‘WHAT THE...’

He saw it, saw him!

A shadow disappeared around the bend in the middle of the bridge.

How could this be real. Spat was gone, but this figure in the distance, it really looked like Spat.

Jason was scared, but he had learned to push on despite his fear. His crew, the ‘dirt-city boys’ had a no pussies policy. If you feared something or someone, you damn sure didn’t show it. Fear, weakness, vulnerability, all strictly prohibited in their world. He steadied himself, stuck his chest out and strode into the darkness like he was indestructible.

The bridge was four hundred yards long, with a bend in the middle. This line was quieter than the passenger lines adjacent to it, as it only carried freight trains. There were mounds of pigeon shit lining the bottom of the walls, rusty cans here and there. Very few people ventured here, and for good reason.

The only sound under the bridge was the crunching of the stones under his sneakers and the gentle cooing of the birds nesting amongst the steel girders. He skipped onto the tracks, so he could step across the thick, wooden sleepers. If someone was up ahead, he wanted to approach them quietly, he didn’t want to be noticed.

As he thought about who or what he might encounter ahead, he bent down and picked up a rock the size of his fist, if he bumped into someone that posed a threat, he wanted to be ready for anything.

As he walked the lines, he looked at the graffiti on the walls of the tunnel, he was alone in a gloomy art gallery. Most of the graffiti was painted by his crew and every piece he passed by was a memory, a reminder of a time spent with his closest friends, getting wasted, trying to create something, trying to find meaning in a world they didn’t really understand and that didn’t understand them.

He stopped at a section of the wall that had two big, silver, block-letter pieces. Two names, his own ‘JAYO’ and his dead friend ‘SPAT’. In between the blockbusters a big cartoon face, a cheeky bandit, with a black mask over his eyes and a gleaming gold tooth. Another crew member painted the character.

As Jason AKA ‘JAYO’ looked at the wall he lit a cigarette and walked towards the wall. He touched the wall with his left hand, running it over the cool, concrete surface. He looked up and down the tunnel and felt acutely aware of how lonely he felt. He was by himself, but he couldn’t help thinking that even if the crew were with him, he’d feel the same.

He stared at the Spat piece. It was the first time since Spat died that he’d been under this bridge. Along with a few photos this was all he had to remember his friend, just graffiti, painted on walls and under tunnels. Jason knew that it wouldn’t last. The city would clean the streets, and rival crews would try and take their spots. It was all finite.

He took a drag of his smoke and thought about Spat. Nobody could tell him anything. He wanted to do the most, the biggest pieces. He had to push boundaries. Just when you thought he’d taken things as far as he could go, he took it further.

Jason smiled wanly. He felt partly responsible for Spat’s death, he wanted to warn him not to paint the Atherton Insurance building. It was too high. Spat couldn’t resist it though, having your name in block letters, five stories above the city streets proved to be to alluring a prospect for him to ignore. Nobody had hit that spot before and he wanted to make history.

And he did make history, just not in the way he had intended.

Jason flicked his cigarette butt into the stones and tried to suppress the regret he felt. Why couldn’t he tell his friend how he felt? Why couldn’t he simply say, “Forget that spot, it’s too dangerous, It aint worth it.”

Or even more controversially simply say “Bro, I’m worried about you.”.

What type of twisted culture made it taboo to show concern for your friends?

But that was the code. No fear, drink harder, smoke more, run toward the danger. That’s what got Spat killed. When he slipped off the ledge of that building, he didn’t have time to reflect on his decision. He’d wasted his life and for what? To prove he was tough. So, all the boys would see him as ‘Not giving a fuck’.

He fell unimpeded for five stories. His body was so mangled there was no chance of an open casket funeral. His friends, his family would never see him again.

Jason brushed a tear away with the back of his right hand and sniffed loudly.

CLANK!

His head swung like it was on a swivel and his heart started racing again. He tried to control his breathing as he looked ahead into the darkness.

To a graffiti writer that noise was unmistakable, someone had dropped a can, an almost empty can of paint. He wasn’t alone under there.

The sound of the can had intruded on his reminiscences. He was fighting again now, against fear, against his own body. He steadied himself and walked on, towards the bend in the bridge and toward the noise he had heard. He kept at an even pace stepping across the timber beams on the tracks.

He stopped abruptly, sniffing the air like a dog pursuing a wild pig, he could smell paint. The sickly, sweet smell of aerosol. Unmistakable to a dedicated vandal. He reached into his hoodie pocket and gripped the cold, sharp edged stone. If someone wanted trouble, he would start swinging.

He reached the point of the bridge where the track began to sweep around to the left. He walked as softly as he could toward the wall of the tunnel, being in the centre, on the track was too open now. He hugged the flat surface and started creeping along the wall.

He could smell the paint still, stronger now.

As he crept, he glanced at the floor so as not to kick any stray empties and alert anyone of his presence. He stopped before he rounded the bend, tried to steady his nerve. What if it was a rival crew in the tunnel? If he was outnumbered, he could catch a vicious beat down.

What if it was Spat?

Escaped from his tomb, fingernails torn and bloody from mindlessly tearing at his coffin lid. He would be broken and lumbering, his face an unrecognizable mess, destroyed by the unrelenting streets he died on.

Jason’s body was screaming RUN! In every way that it could, but he ignored it. He denied feeling any fear. Old habits die hard.

He crept around the corner, as he emerged slowly into the second half of the bridge he saw, nothing.

His heartrate slowed, he looked around, he was alone. The smell of aerosol persisted and as he walked slowly toward the light at the end of the tunnel he scanned the wall, and there it was…A brand new silver throw up. He could smell the fresh paint. He touched it. It was still tacky to the touch. He withdrew in horror and walked backwards, to the centre of the bridge and onto the tracks.

The Throw-up, in big bubble letters read ‘SPAT’ and beside the last letter was written in an unmistakable hand-style ‘NO HARD FEELINGS BOYS…’

Jason started to hyper-ventilate, he looked down at the fingertips of his right hand and the silver paint on his fingertips brought him close to vomiting, he was nauseous, burning up. He wanted out, now. He was just past the middle of the bridge so onward was the only way. He turned away from the offensive moniker, slowly soaking into the concrete wall and as he headed toward the end of the bridge, he saw him.

At the end of the tunnel, framed by the light of a warm summer evening was Spat. It had to be him. The light and distance made it impossible to make out his facial details but the hooded figure, stood on the track was his dead friend, back to leave a message for his crew.

Jason was paralysed with terror, mouth gaping, eyes glazed. He started walking backwards slowly and Spat took a step forward and raised his arm and pointed at Jason.

‘Why?’ Jason thought.

‘Why is he doing this to me?’

Spat lurched forward, still pointing at Jason, or beyond him into the tunnel.

HHHOOOOOOOOOOOOTT!!!

Jason spun around and saw the lights of an oncoming train just as it emerged from around the bend. He ran of the track so quickly the stones shifted under his feet, and he hit the ground hard. He fell barely a metre from the rumbling freight train. As it thundered by him, he curled into a ball and covered his ears with both of his hands, but the noise still filled his head.

After the noise died and the vibrating ground became still again Jason sat up, and Spat was still there in the distance.

He raised his hand again, slowly, and this time waved goodbye to his old friend and moved out of sight.

He was gone, and as Jason realized he was alone again he felt an acute sense of loss. He got to his feet and yelled ‘Spat?’

He started walking quickly toward the end of the tunnel and yelled louder ‘SPAT!!’

He started running now, his ankle hurt, he must have turned it dodging the train. He pushed on despite the pain. The end of the tunnel was seventy…sixty yards away. As he emerged out of the tunnel and into the light he squinted in the brightness of the sun and tried to look around for Spat. Frantically searching with impaired vision for his brother.

But Spat was gone.

Jason started to ask himself questions with the speed and aggression of an overzealous cop.

What If that was someone else?

How could this be?

Was someone else writing Spat’s name, like as a dedication?

He looked around in disbelief, he was dirty, and exhausted now. As he tried to gather his thoughts his eye was caught by a list of tags, running vertically down the tunnel wall. He remembered writing this himself a month back, he and Spat had shared a six-pack and done some bombing on the lines that day.

It was what they called a rollcall, a name-by-name list of the whole crew, all eight of the Dirt-City Boys. The first name, ‘JAYO’ and below that ‘SPAT’. That was as far as he could go, he dropped to his knees beside the tracks and finally cried for the loss of his old mate. He sobbed whole-heartedly as he finally accepted that regardless of what he had just experienced, he’d never see Spat again. No more cracking jokes over beers, no more painting pieces together.

Spat was gone, for good.