10
Evidence, good photographic evidence that you can carry around on your phone, is the new Top Trumps. Everyone’s doing it. The first to complete the set rules the school. What exactly constitutes a full set is yet to be defined. We pretty much make up the rules as we go along.
This is our arithmetic: a fight is worth two slaps. Getting something out of a shop is worth two fights. Hassling commuters at the train station is worth half a slap. Steaming a train, as the kids from the Rose estate do during half term, is the equivalent of ten fights.
It all has to come from your own hand, and you have to have a strong stomach for it. Making sure you’ve got at least a few of these on your phone for emergencies – i.e.: when a gang of five are about to knock a couple of strips off your awkwardly pretty face, you can show them a photo of you doing the exact same thing to a twelve-year-old and get off the hook. I’m no coward, so I don’t have to stoop so low, but it does happen. Yellow-belly kids all over this town are kicking the living shit out of the poor bastards the next rung down on the food chain, just so they won’t get mashed. We all know that it’s a sickness, but we can’t help ourselves. (Think it all started when a group of Year 12s became hung up on Darwinism in A Level Biology around the same time they started getting camera phones.)
And when you see a really good photo, you have to cough up for the privilege. (For Year 8s and below, this simply means they won’t get beaten up. For anyone my age, photo exhibition demands renumeration. Niggas gotta show me the money!)
Happened to me last week when I had to buy Moon this CD by some old woman called Julie London. She scored with a filmed piece of a bus driver losing control of his vehicle and crashing into the greengrocer’s on the Broadway. She wanted it for this song called ‘Fly Me To The Moon’, which she thought was really funny. Shelling out the twelve quid was worth it.
‘Are you being ironic?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m being pedantic.’
We played her camerawork back again and again: bus swerving and ploughing into store front, melon after melon rolling towards the road. Such a procession of melons, like Jase could only dream of. People screaming like idiots. Her battery ran out before she could see what happened to the driver. Moon would be unbearable if she had got that.
There was a nasty rumour going round last term that one of the South Efrikan supply teachers was confiscating the worst evidence he could find. Rather than taking it to Year Head or whoever, he was flogging downloads onto some bogus website he’d set up. A kind of lucrative cyber-looting. We all do a bit of swopping on MSN from time to time, but it’s harmless stuff. A fiver here and there, or some Smirnoff miniatures if that’s your poison. Not PayPal.
Old Mandela milked the Year 12 punks. Bled every violent experience from them until they were weak and white. And being the first, they were the best of the bunch. They were dedicated to the cause, merciless and without fear. You could almost feel for those unrelenting bastards, until you remember that none of them had any heart to begin with. He only got found out when some other teacher, a non-supply, non-South Efrikan, was ‘browsing’ the web and came across them, which is suspicious in itself. How does someone browse a child-slapping site innocently? Only Year Head knows the answer to that one. The South Efrikan was shipped out before the end of term. Deported, we’d heard. Back to J’burg or whatever fucking township he came from. The creepier browser stayed on, but only to teach those over sixteen. Hmm …
This is Surrey, where nothing bad ever happens.
11
Moon wears five hundred bracelets under her school cardigan. Rolls up the sleeves at breaktimes to give everyone a flash of quartz and rubber. She isn’t bothered about having skirts that are short or shoes that are high. Says it’s a waste of time, another uniform.
‘I’m not interested in turning up to school looking like one of Charlie’s Angels,’ she goes. ‘I’ve come to school ’cos I wanna learn stuff. Looking like a slapper is bollocks.’
She can afford to say this because everything about her face is nearly perfect. She doesn’t need to draw shit on to create cheekbones or eyes or lips. No craters to cover or clumsily bleached taches to hide.
(It’s only after she’s gone that Gwyn, the evil sister, blows her cover. Tells me about something called sheer make-up.)
Moon is always looking in the direction of the louder girls when she says this stuff. Girls like Kelly Button and Lizzie Jennings, who wear too-tight jumpers and a market-stall weight in gold jewellery. Especially Kelly Button. Making out like Kelly’s the ringleader. Of the dress-like-a-slapper movement. If their eyes meet, Moon will stare and Kelly will scowl. Neither is a fan of the other’s work.
Moon is the least popular girl in our year. Aside from the library crew, and her sister’s friends, most of the bitches won’t speak to her. It also doesn’t help her popularity that she isn’t a fatty. Fat girls with make-up have herds of friends. They stake their claim on various parts of the playground like competitive buffalos. It can feel like living on a ranch some days.
Things would be different if she wore shorter skirts or played a little sport. As things stand, she’s like the girl from the Fantastic Four; invisible for the most part, until one of the eligible boys clocks that she’s looking pretty fine, and then every girl in class will have her on their radar. Willing her to suddenly disappear into whatever’s this week’s equivalent of the Bermuda triangle.
‘So how come you can say all those things, and still wear those?’ I go, bringing it back to the bangles and crystals that smother her pulse points. She’s never without these, or the plastic handbag with the flowers on it, picked up from Cancer Research. She thinks she’s like the girl in that eighties film who always wore pink.
She laughs and gives me the W. Whatever.
‘Because I’m vain. And I’m a girl. I never said anything about not looking pretty.’
12
Can’t sleep, and not just because of the niggle after slapping the commuter who could be Pearson’s dad. Toss and turn like a maniac. It’s better being out of bed, better still to be out of the house, so I get to the park at five-thirty and start warming up. The park-keeper looks at me like I’m a nutter when he arrives at the gates to open up. If I was, say, twenty years older, closer to Casey’s age, he’d take one look at me and call the local constabulary.
It’s six years today since Dad ran off to Germany with the woman who was supposed to be his optician. It’s the anniversary we pretend we never remember. Mum cried in her room last night when she thought I was watching EastEnders. Not because she misses him, but more to do with the shock. She stills feel the shock. Wash away the make-up, toss the new clothes into the laundry, and it’s still as fresh as anything. And it’s been hard for us. He doesn’t have a clue, with his emails that act like nothing ever happened, and those fucking cheques, which we have to take because nurses get paid shit. This is why I don’t return his calls. Because he’s a selfish bastard.
Casey turns up at six on the dot. He strides onto the track, gives a ‘Howdy, Mr V-pen, sir’, but still has a shaky look about him. He’s wearing the same orange and navy tracksuit and white vest he had on at training yesterday. Same Nike cap, same trainers. This is definitely a sign that something’s up. Casey wears his tracksuits in strict rotation. He’s a stickler for routine. If I have five-day training, which is where I’m at currently, I never see the same ensemble. Green and red Mondays, blue and white Tuesdays, orange and navy Wednesdays, baby blue and black Thursdays, red and white Fridays. Today is Thursday. I shouldn’t be seeing the orange for another week.
‘What’s with the Tango-man tracksuit?’ I go, as soon as he gets within shouting distance. ‘I thought you like to, uh, rotate the looks.’
‘Washing machine’s broken,’ he says, and starts bitching about me doing a slack-handed warm-up because I thought no one was watching.
‘God’s always watching, and don’t you forget it,’ he goes.
�
�I think you forgot to have a shower, when God was off watching Queer Eye,’ I mutter under my breath after I’ve got a honk under my nose. It isn’t just the washing machine that’s busted. He reeks.
‘What’s that?’
Luckily he doesn’t hear, otherwise I’d be doing an extra five laps for cheek.
Casey has an Irish body. Tall and built; strawberry white skin, brown gold crop growing out into a sulky skullcap of curls, a once-trim body which, thanks to worry and drink, is now slowly turning to fat. And old, around thirty-five. If you passed him in the street you’d think he was a butcher or a builder. He didn’t look like this a year ago, and this is the worst thing, I think. That a lifetime of fine-tuning his body, of exercising self-discipline, to the cost of everything else, so that he was as close to a panther as you can become in human form, was all lost. It’s like getting a Lotus and leaving it to rust in the yard. The biggest waste.
I would never tell Casey this as he might get excited, get a stiffy at the thought of me studying him physically, but I have so much respect for him and what he’s done. I wouldn’t be working with him otherwise. Olympic squad at nineteen, try touching that. I often think about him and his body – because even now any athlete can still see what an awesome machine it was. You only have to look at the way he walks – and wonder about the pivotal moment over those few weeks last summer that made him decide to let his body go.
There’s not time for too much funny business. The race is tomorrow. North East Surrey Under 16s. I’m competing in the 400 and 1200m. How’s that for versatility? My timings are all out this morning, though. 1200 is the worst, running it like it’s the marathon. I can’t get my head together. Must have something to do with thinking about Dad, and the unexpected reappearance of You’ve Been Tangoed. My left shoulder and upper arm are still hurting from where the guy at school booted me. No signs of bruising left, but it hurts like hell. I keep this from Casey too, before he offers to lay hands. He’s very eager that way.
‘Where is your fucking head today, boy? God pardon my language,’ Casey’s saying in my ear, after I mess up another 1200.
‘I’m trying the visualising, and it’s not working.’
Like I’m going to tell him about Dad. I’m lying on my back, out of breath, because he’s made me do fifty push-ups for messing up, followed by squat thrusts. With the shoulder, it’s agony. I’m almost crying.
‘Do your Hail Marys and quit moaning,’ he says whilst I’m huffing and puffing like some out-of-shape fatty.
I’m hoping to get on with the next run. Skip the lecture.
‘Don’t blame the technique, V-pen. That’s bullshit. It’s not working because your heart’s not in it. Blaming the technique. Sign of a bad athlete.’
That’s enough to get me on my feet. Hopping about like Ali.
‘What kind of motivation is this? Aren’t you supposed to say how great I’m going to be tomorrow, instead of this fruity telling-off ?’
‘Hey! What have I told you about calling me that?’
We’re both pissed off, and skulk to our respective areas. Him to trackside, by the long jump, where his trainer marks have already given him a ready-made grave; me back to the starting line. During the next 1200 I visualise being chased by a naked Casey. He’s got an acorn, and is screaming after me like a girl, ‘Want a lift? Want a lift?’ It seems to do the trick. I break my previous best. A couple more of those and everyone’s happy. Now, when I’m on my back again, top off, doing some quick chest curls, he lies down beside me and tells me how great I’m going to be tomorrow.
‘I know,’ I say, getting up, only after I’ve finished my reps. Making no effort to put my top back on. I like how my pecs look at the moment; it’ll take more than Casey to get me to hide them. The trick with PPPs is to give them eye contact the whole time, especially when they start doing things like lying down next to you. They’re quick to wheedle once they see the first sign of hesitation.
I’m back on my feet and start on the cool-down within a minute. I don’t like the attention as much as I think.
13
Moon catches up with me at lunchtime. We’re in different sets, so half a day can go by when I barely see her. I’m walking quickly down the corridor because I’ve been told to avoid trouble. I need to avoid trouble. The school letter proves it. She catches me up, finally, and pins me against a locker. Legs all up my back like we’re a couple – which I love, as it winds everyone up – and clutching her phone like it’s an Oscar.
‘You’re not the only one who’s been busy with the pictures. Just so you know, I got mine.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of you, stupid … and your PPP.’
‘Fuck! When?’
‘This morning. I told you I was going to do it.’
Moon now has a smug look, like she just ate shit. Everyone is giving us the eye, though that’s more due to the leg action and the fact that my hands are now cupping her tits.
She runs her hands through my hair, taking locks through her fingers, and gives a firm pull. It hurts like hell, feels like someone’s stabbing me in the head with a handful of pins, but of course, I’m turned on by it. Have to turn in towards her so that no one can see how physically turned on I am, especially as it’s in public, and implies an intimacy most of them are still dreaming about.
It’s always the same with every girl I’ve been with. They always go for the hair; they can’t get enough of it. Thick and black, curls stubbornly upright, stiff like a cherub who wants to get it on, framing my face like the centre of a lightbulb, and finished off with pearly whites that know how to grin. That’s the cherry on top, my cheek. If I’m frozen out by the hair snobs, I’m all theirs for the cheek.
Like I say, I don’t know whether it’s the Tamil in me or the Jew in me, but I’ve got to give thanks to someone for pulling that off, the hair, when I was bubbling in the gene pool. It’s a calling card I’m happy to have.
Kelly Button, still unsuitable but very tasty, is one of the crowd in the corridor. I think she’s interested. She has this look on her face that suggests she wants to take Moon out. Pull her hair and stamp her sovereign rings into her eye sockets. It’s a good job Moon’s talking in my ear or she’d be dead meat.
Moon flicks through her photo file and pulls it up. Me on the floor with my vest off and nips out. Casey almost on top of me. His mouth is millimetres away. It’s a post-snog-that-never-happened kind of photo.
‘How come I didn’t see you?’
‘Because I was undercover, dufus.’
I start to panic because I look like the biggest faggot. If this fell into anyone’s hands, say Pearson’s for example, I might as well move schools.
‘Fuck! What are you going to do with it? Moon, don’t even think about sending this to Mum.’
‘Course not, VP,’ (I let her call me VP occasionally), ‘it’s going nowhere. You were taking the piss out of me the other day. I just wanted to prove to you that I could do it. Think of it as evidence.’
I’m very cool before I say this. Don’t want to give her the wrong idea, that I’m bothered about any of it.
‘But we’re mates, Moon. Why would you need evidence?’
She thinks for a moment before replying, ‘I don’t know, VP. I just do.’
14
I should have had her surveillance work deleted on the spot, but I didn’t. Too much of a softie. I’m like a giant Mr Whippy, all floaty and genial. I was feeling it all the more too, because I remembered the extra warm glow I had after we did it at Christmas. It was spilling it to Jason that did it, made me forget to watch my back. I’m a foot and a smudge taller than her, and carry enough muscle. I could have had that phone out of her hand in a flash. File deleted before she even noticed. All just by holding my hand above my head. But I don’t. At that point, her having that picture didn’t seem to be a problem.
I’m too busy worrying about my own evidence. It’s tough trying to be hard, when you’ve got this conscience-thing pricking i
nto you the whole time. If our latest slap turns out to be Pearson’s dad, then we’ve got problems. Moon is convinced that it is. Parents’ evening last term, when she was serving the coffee and spilt half a cup on his trousers because she has poor hand-to-eye coordination, and was completely the wrong person to be asked to walk round with a tray of drinks. She says the look in the eyes was something similar. Also, the half-bald head is something of a giveaway. She promises to keep her mouth shut, even from Jason. Takes a bag of Maltesers and some micro cardigan from H&M before I’m completely sure.
I don’t know what I’m worrying about. There’s no way this would get back to Pearson. The man looked so old he’d have trouble recognising us anyway. We were wrapped and Nike’d up like all the other kids who live round here. Needle in a haystack. Also, it was very dark, which helps. Thank God for conservation areas and low-level lighting. Local heritage is a slapper’s best friend. It nixes modern security techniques. And even if Pearson did get hold of the slap somehow, there’s very little to trace it back to us. Unless, of course, Pearson’s dad knows anything about bikes, in which case Jase’s Mountie Series 5, polished titanium and very specalised, leaves us wide open. But, like, he’s going to know anything about bikes!
It’s a niggle larger than the last. Stays for days.
15
Mum and me are having celebratory KFC in the car on the way back from the races. I trounced the 400 and the 1200m. I’d like to say the wins were down to the lion, but they had more to do with Casey chasing me naked. It was a last-minute decision, the only image I came up with that would stick. I may have to shag Moon again just to make sure that Casey and his acorn don’t come back next meeting.
You don’t get two minutes to yourself when you’ve won a race. Because the organisation was cack-handed, people are everywhere once I’ve cleaned the 400, all vying to give me a pat on the back. All aside from my trainer, who’s been told to keep well away. I give him the results by text. Today, however, this includes a pat on the back from the Harriers, which is the best of all, because you can see it’s choking them.
Graffiti My Soul Page 4
