Graffitti

Sunday was a day of rest.  Well, almost.  Bob enjoyed a lie in, a late Full English Breakfast in a café off of Petticoat Lane, and then spent the rest of the day doing the books with either the footy or F1 on the telly in the background, before opening up at six for a few hours.
 
What he didn’t enjoy was someone leaning on his flat doorbell at eight in the morning.  He staggered across the bedroom, flung open the window and leant out.

“What?” he yelled.  Then he noticed the two uniformed police officers standing in the street.  The bell stopped ringing and Inspector Wilson stepped backwards into view.  He looked up at Bob and treated him to a grin.
 
“Good morning, sir.  Are you the keyholder of these premises, by any chance?”
 
“Jesus Christ, Wilson!  It’s Sunday morning!”
 
“Is it?”  Wilson looked at his watch in mock surprise.  “Why, yes it is.  Thank you for letting me know.  I wonder, sir, if you might come down here for a moment.”
 
Bob glanced at the uniforms.  One was taking photos of the bar front.  “What’s with the woodentops?  Are you going to arrest me?”
 
Wilson glanced back at the two regulars.  “No, not unless you’ve been a naughty boy.  These officers are just investigating this heinous crime.”  He indicated the front of the bar with a sweep of his hand.  He was obviously enjoying himself, which meant Bob would not.
 
“Fine, fine.  Give me a minute, okay?”
 
He pulled his head back in and closed the window.  What the hell would Wilson want with him, at this ungodly hour on a Sunday?  Something that meant trouble if it had got him up and about at this time.  Bob pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, slipped on a pair of old trainers and made his way down the stairs.
 
“Well?” he said, stepping out into the spring air.
 
Wilson indicated the bar.  Bob stepped out into the gutter and turned. Along the length of the bar front in white paint someone had written a message.
 
“What does it say?”  asked Wilson.
 
“How would I know?”
 
“Well, you were always the touchy feely one, learning their culture and stuff.  I thought you could read this stuff.”
 
Bob stared at the wall and shrugged.  “They’re not all the same, you know.  They each have their own language and script.  You’re supposed to be the experts.”
 
“Oh, we got people who’ll decipher it, right enough.  Not me, though.”  Wilson shrugged.  “Can’t be arsed learning all that mumbo-jumbo.  They want to live here, they gotta learn the lingo.  What is it, you think?  Elf?  Fairy?  Not dwarf, not unless they had a ladder, eh?”  He chuckled at his own joke.  “So, what you want to do?”
 
“Sorry?”
 
“Do you wish to make a complaint of criminal damage to my uniformed colleagues?  SOCO probably won’t come out today, lazy buggers.  Monday, possibly Tuesday they can check for prints, fairy dust, that sort of thing.  Of course, you’ll have to leave it all up there till they’ve finished.  We can round up all the neighbours.”  He looked up at the windows in the street.  “Bound to be hundreds of the little buggers in this road, right?  Of course, they won’t have heard anything.  Thick as thieves, eh?  All we’ll get is no speaky English.  Well, at first, anyway.”
 
Bob sighed.  “No.”
 
“No?  Really?  Well, if you’re sure.”  Wilson beckoned an officer over.  “If you can just inform my colleague here.”
 
“I don’t wish to press charges,” Bob told the police officer.
 
“Shame, but never mind.  Okay, officer, thank you very much for your assistance.  You can go back to answering stupid questions from tourists.”
 
Wilson turned back to Bob.  “It’s still a Ministry thing, though.  Oh yes.  Never mind not pressing charges.  Fae vandalism?  Maybe political?  Signs of unrest, certainly.  The natives are getting restless, and we can’t have that.  So don’t you worry.  We’ll keep a special eye out.  Extra patrols.  Maybe wave the flag when you’re open.”
 
He leant closer.  “That’s what you fae-lovers don’t understand, see?  They’ll never be one of us, and we’ll never be one of them.  Shove ‘em all behind a wall, that’s what some people say.  Line up against one would be better, ‘cause that’s exactly what they’re saying about us.”  He stepped back and surveyed the graffiti.  “That’s going to be a bugger to get off, and then you’ll have to repaint it.”  He looked at his watch.  “Best jump to it, then.  B and Q are going to do well out of you today, eh?”  He gave Bob a big grin, then turned and sauntered over to his car.
 
Bob watched the car drive off, then turned to face the bar.  He frowned and his lips moved as he stared at the lettering.  His Elf was poor at best, and he hadn’t kept up his studies since he left the Ministry, but it was good enough to get the gist of it.
 
Wilson was going to have a field day.  Elvish script calling for a war?  God, no one had learnt anything from the Battle of Cable Street or the Paki-bashing of the seventies.  He glanced at his watch.  The DIY stores wouldn’t open until ten.  Nothing he could do until then, and he was up now.  He turned and started towards his Full English.