King Street Standalone: The Great Lavatory Standoff

by Dustybarbarian

Summary:

On a rain-soaked Manchester evening, the King Street gang find themselves in a half-circle around the foulest foe they’ve yet faced — the outdoor lav. What should be a simple chore soon descends into a battle of excuses, insults, and wartime one-upmanship, as every man scrambles to prove why it shouldn’t be his turn with the bucket.

The five of them stood in a loose half-circle round the outdoor lavatory like it was an unexploded bomb. Rain had churned the yard into puddles, cobbles slick underfoot, the old timber door sagging on its hinges. Even with it shut, the stink seeped out — sour, sharp, enough to make Robbie gag and flap his hand like a melodramatic stage turn.

Gary’s jaw worked as he surveyed them.

“Right,” he said, voice clipped. “One of you lot’s cleaning it. Now.”

Nobody moved.

Howard shoved his hands deeper in his coat pockets and glowered at the lav as if he could shame it into scrubbing itself. Jason’s lip curled, though he kept his silence. Mark tugged his scarf up over his mouth. Robbie edged back half a step, pointing at the door as though volunteering it instead.

Gary let the stillness stretch. “Don’t all rush at once.”

“What happened to Richie? Thought we gave that lad a few bob to keep it decent,” Mark asked, muffled by his scarf.

“He’s not shown his face for a week,” Robbie said.

“Where is he?” Howard asked.

“Probably in the Royal Infirmary by now, after catching something off that bog,” Mark muttered.

Gary’s voice flattened. “The punters are already moaning. The lads who usually see to it aren’t here. I want it done before we open.”

“Well, you do it then,” Robbie piped, bold as brass.

Gary’s eyes narrowed. “Do I look like I run this gang and scrub privies?”

Robbie grinned. “You’re the guv’nor. Time you set an example.”

Jason gave a sharp snort through his nose. “Christ, Rob. You’d have Gaz down there in his best suit with a bucket, would you?”

“Better him than me!” Robbie said cheerfully.

Mark muffled through wool. “Truth be told, it’s a public health matter. Council ought to manage it.”

Howard rumbled, flat. “Council don’t own our yard. We do.”

“Exactly!” Robbie jabbed a finger like he’d proved his point. “Ownership trickles down from the top. Which means Gaz.”

Gary’s tone cut. “It’ll trickle down on you in a minute if you don’t shut it.”

They all stared at the lav again. Nobody budged.

Jason broke the silence, voice even and precise. “Robbie’s the youngest. Youngest always gets the dirtiest jobs. Easy..”

Robbie barked a laugh. “Nice try, Pretty Boy. You’ve still got soft hands from countin’ coins. You’d be quicker than me.”

Howard’s mouth twitched. “He’s not wrong. Jason’s delicate.”

Jason turned on him, eyes flashing. “Delicate? I’ve seen muck you lot would never step in twice. I’m not scrubbing faeces off brickwork.”

Mark raised a hand like a schoolteacher. “Technically it’s not just—”

“Shut it, Mark,” all four snapped together.

Gary pinched the bridge of his nose. “Christ Almighty. You’d think I’d asked one of you to storm Normandy again.”

Mark scoffed. “You weren’t at Normandy.”

“Yeah, sailor boy!” Robbie jeered.

Howard’s lip twitched. “Sat on a boat all day, starin’ at radar.”

Jason folded his arms, voice smooth and scathing. “Sounds like a floating holiday.”

Gary’s face darkened. “It was naval intelligence, you daft sods. Important work.”

“Important sittin’,” Robbie grinned. “Bet your backside was sore from all them chairs.”

Mark snorted. “Meanwhile I was dragging wounded through mud up to my knees.”

Howard rumbled. “And I froze my bollocks off in a trench.”

Jason’s mouth tightened. “And I was fixing what the Army broke, in places you wouldn’t set foot twice.”

Robbie jabbed both thumbs at himself. “And I was driving lorries under fire. You? You were staring at dots.”

Gary threw up his hands. “For Christ’s sake. You wouldn’t have lasted a week without men like me keeping the seas clear.”

Howard deadpanned: “Sea was already clear. Germans don’t swim.”

Robbie bent double, wheezing with laughter. “That’s why he joined the Navy — didn’t want to dirty his shoes!”

Jason’s voice cut like a razor. “Imagine the catastrophe — a kettle boiled over on deck and Gaz had to file the report in triplicate.”

Mark’s eyes glinted. “Bet you had your own teapot, didn’t you? Silver service, little biccies?”

“Yeah,” Robbie gasped between laughs, “while we were on stew, he was sipping Earl Grey with lemon!”

Howard finally cracked a grin. “Only wound he took was paper cuts.”

Jason arched a brow. “Trauma from running out of ink.”

Robbie wheezed. “Careful lads, he’ll be calling for reinforcements!”

Mark delivered the last blow. “You’ll know Gaz is under fire when he hides behind a filing cabinet.”

They were all laughing now, even Howard’s low chuckle joining in. Only Gary stood fuming, rain dripping from his hat brim, jaw locked.

“Are you quite finished?” he growled.

Robbie straightened. “Not really, but I’m pissing myself here—”

“Good!” Gary snapped. He jabbed a finger at the lav. “Then you can piss in a clean bog once one of you bastards has scrubbed it. Now — who’s going in?”

Silence fell.

Jason spoke first. “Robbie. Youngest, lowest rank. End of matter.”

Robbie’s grin dropped. “Bollocks! I’m the comic relief. Can’t risk me hands on carbolic. What if they burn? Who’ll keep Gaz smilin’ then?”

Gary didn’t blink. “You don’t make me smile, Rob.”

Mark pointed. “Howard’s strongest. He’d be done in half the time.”

Howard grunted. “I’m muscle, not charwoman.”

Jason smirked. “Big distinction.”

Howard shot him a look. “Careful, Pretty Boy. I’ll dunk your head in there till it gleams.”

“Oi!” Robbie pounced. “Jason’s the neat freak. Irons his socks. He’d do a proper job.”

Jason’s lip curled. “And you’d still manage to piss on the seat tomorrow.”

Mark sighed. “We could share it. Take turns.”

Robbie barked. “What, one cheek apiece?”

Howard deadpan: “Mark’d bring a clipboard. Do a rota.”

Mark actually perked. “That’s not a bad idea.”

Gary smacked his forehead. “Christ on a bike.”

Robbie jabbed a finger. “I’m stickin’ with my first answer. Boss does it. Lead by example.”

Jason gave a sly smile. “Actually…y’know, that I would pay to see.”

Howard rumbled a chuckle. “Gaz in his three-piece, brush in hand.”

Gary’s face thundered. “Not happening.”

He dug out a penny. “Coin toss. Pair off. Heads you’re safe, tails you’re not. Last poor sod scrubs.”

They went at it. Howard — heads. Jason — heads. Robbie — tails. Mark — tails.

“Hold on!” Robbie snatched the coin on the decider. “Gaz is in it too. Fair’s fair.”

Mark nodded. “Five men, five chances.”

Gary glared. Robbie flipped: tails.

Silence. Then howls of laughter.

Gary pocketed the coin. “Think that settles it? Robbie, you’re still bloody doing it.”

Before Robbie could argue, Gary turned on the rest. “And the lot of you are helping — or you’re out on your ears.”

They all protested at once.
Howard: “Really?”
Jason: “I’ve the wrong clothes for it!”
Mark: “I feel a bit queer all of a sudden.”
Robbie clutched his chest. “Weak lungs! The fumes’ll finish me!”

Gary exploded. “Right. Enough!”

He grabbed Robbie by the collar and Mark by the scarf and hauled them across the cobbles like squawking hens.

“Gaz! I’ve got rights!” Robbie shrieked, boots skidding.

 “I’m delicate!” Mark wheezed, clinging to his scarf.

Gary yanked the lav door, shoved them both inside, and slammed it. The stink hit like a fist.

Robbie’s howl rang out. “It’s worse in here! I can taste it!”

Mark gagged. “I’m going under—”

Gary spun, snatched a bucket of soapy water, and shoved it at Jason and Howard so hard suds slopped over their coats.

Jason hissed. “Oi! These are new trousers!”

Howard caught the bucket, deadpan, then looked at Gary. “Really?”

“Really,” Gary snapped — and lunged. He hooked Jason’s tie, yanking him forward with a strangled squawk, and clamped Howard’s arm, dragging both like naughty schoolboys toward the door.

Jason’s mask cracked at last. “I can’t bloody breathe!” he barked, batting at Gary’s grip.

Howard rumbled, trudging along. “You’ll get suds everywhere if you’re not careful.”

“Good,” Gary said. “More soap than that bog’s seen in a year.”

With one heave, he shoved them through, slammed the door, and jammed a rusty spade through the handle. Rain dripped from his hat as he bellowed:

“You listen here! My service in the Navy weren’t some bloody jolly! You reckon it was all tea and biscuits? Well now it’s soap and bristles — and you’ll scrub till it shines, or you’ll be swimming home like them Germans you reckon don’t swim!”

Inside came a chorus of groans and fury. Jason’s voice carried loudest: “Gaz, when I get out of here—”

“Scrub!” Gary thumped the door.

He stood listening — Robbie whining, Mark gagging, Howard’s low growl telling them to get on with it, Jason cursing like a docker.

Gary shook his head, muttering as he turned back toward the pub: “Christ. Run a firm, end up mindin’ idiots in a privy. Navy never trained me for this.”

From inside:
Robbie’s wail: “I’m dying in ’ere!”
Jason’s snarl: “Gaz, you bastard, I’ll have your guts for garters!”
Howard, calm and flat: “Just scrub, you sods.”
Mark’s pitiful gag: “It’s insanitary!”

Gary allowed himself the faintest smile as he pushed through the back door. Babysitting idiots, aye — but they were his idiots.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of King Street