Graffiti My Soul

by Niven Govinden

  ‘Why the about turn?’ I ask. ‘Thought I was public enemy number one at the Jones household.’

  The funeral changed their mind it seems. Seeing me in that state struck a nerve. Also, the parents are Christians, the kind who have the fish bumper sticker on each of their vehicles. Fish-wavers aren’t fighters, they’re forgivers.

  She’s telling me that her parents want to see me for dinner. That they’re ready to talk, if I am. That’s the point of her meeting up today. That Moon would have wanted us to get along in some way, no matter what happens.

  Now it’s my turn to have tears in my eyes. Everything she says is unexpected. We’re now turned inwards towards each other as we speak. Eyes are on me the whole time, not like her sister. She’s still holding my hand in both of hers. We talk into each other’s ears so none of the mothers can hear the sound of our hearts being bled dry. If she comes any closer I’m going to have to kiss her. If I close my eyes, it would be like . . .

  Only Pearson’s mother comes in and drops her shopping when she sees us. An albino giantess, almost the same height as Jase. Pearson is a shorty, five-nine, and dark like his father. That was always comedy seeing the two of them together, mother and son, like something from Monsters Inc. Her eyes pop out as if someone’s strangling her. The billion nerve endings under her skin unite and put together a show of fury. Pure. There’s no other word to describe it. Face blood red and getting darker by the second. She always thought Moon and her precious boy belonged together. Hates the fact that I may have had something to do with ruining it. Scares me shitless. So scared I stop thinking about kissing my dead girlfriend’s sister.

  ‘My son’s not a liar!’

  She screams it so loud the whole of Starbucks drops a load.

  She steps forward, oblivious of the looks around us, but I’m already up on my feet. I’m not staying to hear any more. I drop Gwyn’s hand, and the biscotti, say that I’m sorry for the five hundredth time, and leg it.

  35

  Winning my last races meant something. Kept me on the road to receiving a tin cup at the end of the season, as well as rubbing Brendan’s nose in the shit. This next race doesn’t have the same kudos. You don’t even get a certificate. But if it gives me another chance to piss all over Harriers, I’m there.

  I’ve still trained like a mother, friendly trial or not. Stopped daydreaming and started knuckling down. Putting in mornings and afternoons. Clearing my mind of the bullshit happening at school or anywhere else. Who cares who Moon’s going out with? Doesn’t matter that the trials have nothing to do with the national championships. Once I’m on the track, there’s no such thing as being friendly.

  Mum should be coming to wave a flag and cough up the traditional post-win KFC, but is having another date with whatsisname, the man I haven’t met yet. He’s taking her to some stupid event at Silverstone. Mum has absolutely no interest in cars, but is acting like she’s the one who’s driving or something.

  ‘I’m going the see some of the best racers in the world,’ she goes. ‘Mike’s really gone to a lot of trouble to get these tickets.’

  They’re also non-refundable, and whatsisname sounds too dopey to have ever heard of eBay. Loser!

  ‘Go. Have fun,’ I tell her, seeing how she’s bought a new leather jacket and got the hair straighteners out again. ‘Just make sure he treats you like a queen.’

  She laughs like she knows something I don’t.

  ‘My hopes aren’t as lofty as yours, kiddo. As long as he treats me better than your lovely father, then that’s good enough for me.’

  The bonus result of not having Mum around for the race means that I can get touchy-feely with Kelly, all in the name of celebration, on the way home. But Kel blows me out as she has to work the stall at the weekend. It has to be something major for her parents to give her a day off – none of them think that this is it.

  Location-wise, the trial is a Guildford special. Thirty minutes on a train each way. Moon and Jason come for company. Mum gives me the money for all three tickets and says ‘that’s that’. Looks happy at the prospect of a teen-free day, of having her eardrums blownout all in the name of romance; but guiltily so, because she can’t be happy unless there’s some kind of baggage attached. If I ever bothered to ask her why that was, she’d say ‘It’s because I’m a mother.’ At least, that’s what I’d imagine she’d say.

  She coughs up another twenty quid.

  Need to spend the next couple of days settling my head for the run. Physically everything’s great, but something about the way Pearson looked at me the other day in the school caff has ruined all my mind-work over the last couple of weeks. I go to sleep thinking of that face, it’s that bad. Puts me nearly back at square one.

  I try and make arrangements for Casey to come down to Guildford and watch from the sidelines. It’s a big-enough track, so he could quite possibly slip into the upper stands without attracting any attention, but like Mum, and Kel, he seems to have other plans. He has no obligation to me, other than training me for races that he never gets to see. It’s the kind of half-arsed job I want to have when I grow up.

  He calls up as I’m packing up my kit ready to go, saying he has flu in the clearest, most non-congested voice I’ve ever heard. Doesn’t even sound remotely sorry. Says there’ll be another time. Like in another twelve months! It makes me feel all reactionary. Start wondering if he’s taking that kid out instead. That he’s lucked out. Bonding over Britney, stars in everyone’s eyes. Bet the kid will go anywhere with him after that. It’s obvious.

  On the train it’s like everything’s the same as normal, except we’re all wearing each other’s clothes, or something. Moon and Jason act like they’re the best friends in the world, which isn’t helping any. Yacking way too much. Every approaching promise of a silent vacuum extinguished; filled, filled, filled. And they’re not even saying anything interesting, it’s all nonsense.

  ‘Can both of you keep your traps shut for just a minute?’ I go. ‘I’m meant to be visualising.’

  ‘OK,’ they say, and carry on talking.

  This puts me in a really bad mood. They don’t even think to ask about Kelly. By the time we get to Guildford, I’m ready to explode.

  It’s an indoor track, which I hate, big time. Running outdoors feels more real somehow, less poncey. I like things to be natural, to feel the sun on my face. I like it that you can see the sky. Enclosed tracks give me claustrophobia. I become a caged rat, anxious and scratchy, something that works wonders for my running. I get revved up good and proper. If anything, I run faster in these places. This isn’t reverse psychology, no matter how many times Casey tells me it is. It’s just fucked-up.

  Brendan meets us in the foyer. He’s the closet thing we have to a guardian this afternoon. We’re stuck with him for the duration, being his sole charges, since none of his precious Harriers even qualified for this thing, they’re so crap.

  ‘Welcome to Guildford,’ he goes, big smile and flaky arms wide open, like he’s the Ambassador for Guildford or something. Dryskinned freak.

  We all nod. No one makes any attempt to shake his hand.

  ‘How are we all feeling? Has everyone eaten?’

  ‘We’re feeling great!’ says Moon brightly.

  ‘Yup. Really excited for V’s chances,’ goes Jase.

  Brendan has no children of his own, and it shows. He’s nodding his head like he’s taking them seriously.

  ‘That’s excellent. Verrapen, you have some really supportive friends here.’

  ‘It’s Veerapen,’ I go, for the five thousandth time.

  ‘Well, look, Veerapen, why don’t I take your friends up to the seating area, whilst you get changed and get yourself ready? It’s an hour until you’ll be called, so if you’re going to eat anything, make sure it’s something very light, like a piece of fruit. Though it may be better if you don’t eat anything at all.’

  I touch his arm. It’s safe, he’s wearing his trackie top, so there’s no danger of any skin
flaking off on me.

  ‘It’s alright, Brendan, I’ve done a few of these before. I’ll steer clear of the steak and kidney pies.’

  Moon gets a call on her cell and starts looking all shifty. Jason too, as their mutual friend checks in. But Brendan’s whisked them away before I can think any more about it.

  I hit the showers as soon as everyone’s out of my face. Can’t be going on the track smelling like a used Astra. The changing rooms are posh, ’cos we’re in Guildford. My shower cubicle has it’s own private changing area and door. It’s like being in the Ritz, but without having to be old or wear a shirt and tie to get in. Proper posh.

  I’m steaming in the shower for a good twenty minutes. Let all the irritation and niggles escape from my pores.

  When I make my entrance into the main changing room proper, hair slicked back, towel wrapped low around my hip bone, a thin line of pube just about visible above the yellow terry cloth, the room is empty, aside from a couple of fatties (they’d call themselves muscular distance runners ’cos they’ve done weights, but they’re fatties to anyone else). Peter Platinum, Under 17s champ, also passes through, or should that be prances through. Runs like a woman on and off the track. All the real dudes are on trackside starting their warm-up. Major disappointment. I look fit when I’m wet. The two fatties aren’t interested. They take one look and go to the showers, where they’re probably going to bum each other furiously.

  Brendan’s back by the time I’m dressed. Chucks me a bottle of water, and makes himself at home.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Yeah, fine. Look, Brendan, I know you’re responsible for me for the day, but you don’t have to keep checking up. I’m a big boy, I know how these things work.’

  ‘I never said you didn’t. Just thought you’d like some encouragement before you start warming up.’

  Better the motivational lecture here than on the track when I’m getting myself in the zone. Don’t want people to mistake him for anyone important.

  ‘Why are you here, anyway?’

  ‘Because I’m responsible for all amateur athletics in North East Surrey, and . . .’

  I give him the W. Whatever.

  ‘Come to claim all the credit. I don’t even run for your scabby Harriers any more.’

  I shouldn’t be getting riled up like this, but I do. All Casey’s techniques on taking your mind down to semi-meditative state before warm-up, of eschewing drama for focus, are gone, thanks to this dry-skinned donut.

  He gives this broad smile as I’m saying all this, raises his eyes like he’s humouring me, and then, when I’m done, his face tightens, eyes darken. All the tension showing in his brows and neck.

  He gets up and shuts the door, but doesn’t move an inch more than that, standing dead straight, hands crossed behind his back like a police sergeant on a fun run. The authority figure.

  ‘You might be on the margins, young man, but you’re still a part of my remit whether you know it or not.’

  ‘Like fuck I am! You’ve had nothing to do with me since I was booted out! You’re only sniffing round now ’cos everyone else at the center runs like a spastic.’

  ‘How do you explain Casey?’

  ‘Dunno what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Did you really think that I wouldn’t know you two were working together? That all your progress this year was down to you training solo? I’m not stupid.’

  ‘I haven’t seen Casey since . . .’

  ‘Yesterday. You haven’t seen Casey since yesterday. You can stop pretending otherwise.’

  ‘You can’t be bothered with me, Brendan, so it’s none of your business who I train with.’

  ‘I knew he’d been training you since that friendly in November. It was all in the technique. You were so bold all of a sudden. So assured. Pure Casey.’

  ‘He’s the best, that’s why. Not like these amateurs you have running about the place.’

  ‘Casey’s no hero. He’s a nothing. He’s lost everything. Self-esteem. Passion. Bravery. When a man like that caves in, and lets the fear take over him, it’s open season, lad. I could impose my will any way I like. Break him, just for fun. Wreck your chances. There’s nothing you could do about it.’

  ‘Bullying belongs at school, mate. Not here. What gives you the right to deny Casey a second chance?’

  ‘But I have given him a second chance! I’ve kept my mouth shut. He wouldn’t still be training you otherwise.’

  ‘Feels like Casey ain’t the one people should be watching. What are you getting out of this, aside from making his life a misery?’

  ‘I’m not immune to wanting some praise every once in a while. Anyone who isn’t honest with themselves about that is a liar. We all want to be a Johnny Big Potatoes. That’s one of the reasons why I do this job. So combine the notion of rescuing Casey with getting my hands on his young protégé . . . the young dark-skinned protégé that everyone’s talking about. A potential Asian hero. Do you see where I’m coming from? It doesn’t get any better than that! He could develop you into something this country could be proud of, and if I got some of the credit for that . . .’

  I go and lock myself in the bathroom for the next few minutes. Turn on the shower and all the taps so that I don’t have to hear any more of his talking. Knock my head hard against the mirror a couple of times until I get scared at the idea of cutting myself and stop. I can’t deal with the stress. All this chatting to people I shouldn’t.

  Brendan’s fifteen minutes of local fame will have to wait. I run my race and come second. It’s good, but not good enough.

  36

  Post-cinema, all the girls want to do is stuff their faces at the Golden Arches, but make out that they’re only here for our benefit. They shout their order for milkshakes as they run upstairs to the ladies to apply yet more MAC, all of us knowing that there’ll be trouble if said shakes, strawberry for one and chocolate for the other, aren’t delivered on a tray complete with jumbo fries and two dozen nuggets. Pearson already has the Moon fear written all over his face and gets the order down pat.

  Friday night. Double date. Moon’s and Kelly’s idea. Something they cooked up in art class whilst Ms Jackson locked herself in the cupboard and had a nervous breakdown. An hour of chaos apparently, a display of pure lawlessness, started by three of the hard kids from the Rose estate. An environment where the hardest of enemies can melt into something resembling friendship, laughing in unison over the fighting pikeys. (Year Head was virtually ready to call the police. It was only the three-thirty bell that stopped things.) Me and Pearson didn’t have any say in the matter. We just had to turn up.

  Outside the Odeon the girls hug each other. Kel hugs Pearson, I hug Moon (strangely exhilarating doing this in front of that shit-for-brains lump – even if the actual touch feels like we’re strangers). And then the girls wait for the boys to do their thing. Passing the love is the fakest thing in the world, and the two of us are the worst at it. We’re nowhere near achieving the levels of fakeness that everyone else seems to display so well and with so much flair. He’s hating this as much as I am. His smile is out, full blast, but the eyes harden when he realises that he’s going to have to press the flesh. It’s only because he’s so besotted with Moon that he even contemplates coming into contact with brown skin. That much is very obvious. We do the black handshake, give a wassup, and the girls relax. I don’t.

  New slasher flick, everybody’s doing it, so screen is packed. We are glued to each other. Me and Pearson are separated by the girls for safety. No escape. Mine and Kel’s snogging has to compete with theirs. Not as much tongue on their side, I notice. His ineffectiveness makes me feel like a right Don Juan. With people on all four sides there’s no chance for anything else. Shame. The only Bo’ Selecta! nudie antics are all in my head.

  I have been lying my pants off. Things on the love front are muddy, not rosy. It’s Moon that I want. Whenever I kiss Kelly, it’s Moony Suzuki that I’m thinking of. There’s no competit
ion. But I don’t confuse snogging with anything else. A warm tongue, an open mouth and all that . . . I act my socks off. Oscar material. The other three are none the wiser.

  Down at the Golden Arches, Pearson starts acting like a motherfucker the moment the girls are out of sight. He doesn’t quite pin me down, but makes pretty damn sure my face comes close to the counter top. My lips kiss the charity box by the till. Penance for molesting Moon in my head whilst I was physically molesting Kelly. Know there’s no point in struggling when he’s got my neck down like this, not just yet. I need to see his body, and I can’t from this angle. Need to plan my moves.

  ‘Don’t listen to every word my girlfriend tells you,’ he goes. ‘I ain’t apologising for nothing.’

  It’s about nine o’clock and the place ain’t busy. There are some younger kids on the front tables who are hanging in two groups of about eight – Year 10 grungers, seen ’em about the place – chatting and not eating anything. A couple of mental home nutters, and an old guy about thirty with bad skin and no date complete the scene. The High Street is like tumbleweed for anyone respectable after dark. If you have any sense you avoid it like the plague.

  ‘What? Got all chicken to do the manly thing, now that it’s time?’ I go, knowing that this isn’t the time to be all cocky, but not being able to help it. ‘Should’ve guessed you wouldn’t have the bottle.’

  ‘I’ll show you bottle, scum,’ he goes, all tough guy, ready to drop a fast one.

  This is when I find his body. Push my leg backwards and out so that it goes straight for his gut. It’s easy ’cos the hurdles make me flexible. He doesn’t quite fly across the room the way I expected, but staggers back a few paces nonetheless. I peel my face from the charity box.