Penny

They said picking litter was better than a custodial. Wankers. It was only paint. They were dead anyway.

The probation officer made me write a letter to the family of the dead bloke. He stood over me in his boiling-hot office while I slumped, head cradled in my arms on his desk. I could hardly spell, even though I was sixteen. It’s what happens if you wag school as much as I did.

I didn’t care. And I wasn’t sorry.

‘Your Dad’s not going to like this Liam’ he said. ‘And I will have to tell him.’

He loved saying that, the prick.

So, I struggled my way through vandalism and desecrated. Better than a good hiding off my Dad. I spent the rest of the meeting picking the plastic off the chair leg. I signed a paper at the end, agreeing to pick up shit in the cemetery. Referral orders should be supervised but that sad sandal-wearing bastard left me to it. Fine by me. It