A greasy spoon diner. Piping hot Full English in front of me—beans on top of bacon, on top of sausages and whatnot. A chipped empty mug.

“How d’you take your coffee, luv?” The stocky waitress asks me. Rolled-up sleeves. Her boobs are watermelons ready to pop out.

“Like my ass,” I say, raising my bloodshot eyes. “Black and strong.”

She stands there like a tree stump. The cogs in her eyes turn, click into place. She laughs. I follow.

Other men in high-vis vests and work boots glance over, then turn back to their plates of eggs and hash browns and whatnot.

She pours as I cut a piece of bacon, scoop some yolk and beans onto it and shove it in my mouth.

“Cheers, darlin’,” I mutter, smiling. Yellow fat drips onto my stubble. “Oh, bugger! Pardon me.” I chuckle as she moves to serve construction workers, van drivers, electricians and whatnot.

I clog my arteries and listen to the men around. Can’t understand nothing. Romanian, Bulgarian—all the same bloody gibberish.

I gaze at Watermelons. Gliding around the tables, calm as Sunday afternoon. Her eyes are sleepy and soft. She has a tattoo on the wrist of her steady, coffee-pouring hand. Can’t make it out.

I’ve got a job to do, can’t sit in this shack all morning. I search her gaze, nod my thanks and step out onto early morning London.

Minutes later, I stand in front of a guy. I’m holding a claw bar. He’s holding his hands cupped over his dick, a defender against a free kick.

Behind the guy is an excavation. Old brick dug out, new glass and metal to go in. The guy is shaking, I can hear his teeth clatter like a creepy wind-up toy.

“Shoulda returned the dosh last Friday, mate,” I say. “D’you have the money?”

I expect he’ll start making excuses in shit English. “I’m just a subbie… main contractor squeezing… just trying to do a job… keep afloat….” That sort of thing.

But he doesn’t talk. Just stands there shaking, hard hat shuffling back and forth on his head, sweat shining on his big flat nose. Defiant.

The instructions from my boss were clear. No dosh—bust his kneecaps and throw him in the bloody hole, tell him next time you’ll bury him in gravel.

“You have the money or not?”

No answer.

“Suit yourself, mate,” I say and step forward. I shake loose my arm and lats, get ready to swing. But something green catches my eye.

A billboard, just past the site fence, hanging off a rundown building, prepped for demolition. It’s half ripped and faded by the sun. On the billboard—two big watermelons, small drops of dew rolling off them. “£2.50 in your nearest Tesco… Every little helps.”

I stand there like a dumbstruck pillock. The watermelons make me think of her boobs. And her boobs make me think of her sleepy eyes. Then I think of a kitchen table bathing in morning sun, and a proper coffee poured for me by that steady hand with the little tattoo on the wrist.

Sweaty Nose’s troubled breathing brings me back. I look in his defiant eyes.

“I didn’t find you, yeah?”

He nods. Hard hat shuffles.

“Do us both a favour, mate. Find yourself another job and stay away from contracting, yeah?”

I swing and throw the claw bar over Sweaty Nose. It makes a wide arch in the air and thumps on the bottom of the pit with a muffled *hrus*.

“Now, I love chatting with you, but it’s time for a second breakfast.”