Graffiti My Soul

by Niven Govinden

  ‘Where were you on Friday night?’

  ‘It was Shabbat, Moon. I was at home having dinner with Mum, like a good little boy.’

  ‘And you stayed in all night?’

  ‘Ask Mum, if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘They’ve been trying to persuade him to go to the police, but he’s refusing. Doesn’t want to be made a fool of. Says he feels stupid enough as it is.’

  ‘He should go to the police if there’s a crime involved. We can’t let Surrey become a neighbourhood of silent victims.’

  ‘You’ll regret saying that if he changes his mind.’

  ‘How will I? I don’t even know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘He’d be able to identify you, you know.’

  ‘I very much doubt it. I hear these attackers are very well covered up these days.’

  ‘If they didn’t get you on his word, there’s always Jason’s.’

  My stomach goes. It’s the kick in the gut I was expecting.

  ‘I wasn’t with Jason on Friday night. I was at home with Mum, like I told you. And just in case you want to check, Jase’s on a new phone. You won’t get the evidence you’re looking for.’

  ‘He’ll still have his old phone somewhere. All we have to do is switch SIM cards and see what’s still on there.’

  ‘True. Except he’ll do his best to hide it.’

  ‘You’re making it very hard for us to stay friends.’

  ‘I thought we were past that. I thought we hated each other. You’ve gotta learn to move on, Moon. No one can respect a person who doesn’t learn to do that.’

  ‘And you call mugging Daniel’s dad moving on? Very mature!’

  ‘Moon, I’m a runner. Putting one foot in front of another is what I do best. I’m always moving on.’

  ‘If I told Dan that I thought it was you, he’d bash your head to a pulp. He’d kill you.’

  ‘If you do that, you can also tell him to bring it on. I’m ready.’

  PART 6

  61

  I tell Jase that Pearson raped Moon and made her take the morning-after pill. She mentioned the pressure he’d put her under once or twice, so this was sort of close to the truth.

  There’s been no comeback since Dad Punk #2, so this is me just speeding things up. Training with Brendan and his team and having to be so gracious about it, waiting for the moment when Mum would introduce me to Mike. My nerves are shredded.

  Also, the very discreet and painstaking trail of Yid graffiti has extended and seems to have pre-empted my moves around school. So beautiful in parts, like a series of ornate classical marks, when you spot them replicated tenfold across your library shelf, on your random textbook, on the underside of the handle of your bag after gym. Replace the Yids with hearts and it could have been love notes he was sending me. It was possibly the closest thing to it since Moon stopped with her visits. I mean, you’ve gotta be really bothered about a guy to be doing stuff like that. It’s a big project.

  The proliferation of symbols are scattered like petals, but read like darts. This is the real world, not some jumbo fantasy I’m having in my head. I need to negate all the additional variables that are pushing me off course. What is it they keep saying at school? That fifty per cent of your final GCSE marks are based on problem solving, the other fifty on effort and imagination? This is my big push at problem solving.

  Jase is nonplussed at the news, like this is hardly the most surprising out-of-character thing that he’s ever heard about that wanker.

  ‘I’m starting to take a real exception to that cunt. This news is only adding to it.’

  Something to do with being dropped once Pearson had made his point down the Bowl. He kept saying he wasn’t bothered, but I wasn’t stupid. He was starting to spend more time with me down the track than he had done for ages.

  ‘Let me speak to a few people.’

  That night, after Jase has spoken to a few people, a petal reaches home. Local paper, back sports page, bottom right, under the athletics report. Upside down, but undeniable.

  Liberties, man.

  62

  ‘Would it make you feel any better if I said that I was into you?’

  ‘Not really,’ goes Gwyn. ‘I wouldn’t believe a word of it anyway. You’ll say anything to get me off your back.’

  ‘But I am. I’m really into you, I think.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘Then why are you holding my hand?’

  ‘Because my’s sister’s dead and our heads are all over the place. We learned all about it in Psychology. It’s called transference.’

  ‘Fuck transference.’

  ‘You’re just looking for someone who understands. Someone who’s going to make you feel better . . .’

  ‘And it’s you.’

  ‘… and I’m not it.’

  ‘I can’t help how I’m feeling.’

  ‘That’s the grief. It’s got nothing to do with me. Do you have any idea how stupid we look together? I’m almost eighteen. You’re fifteen. It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Not if it’s right.’

  ‘Your idea of eligibility and mine are two different things. I’m looking for someone with A levels, not ASBOs.’

  ‘You won’t find anyone like that in this part of Surrey. Gwyn, I feel something for you. It’s nothing to do with dead sisters, transference, or not being carted off in police cars. It’s real.’

  63

  School is all whispers. From the moment I’m in the corridor, I get it. Everyone in class has a mouthpiece on one of two things: Vera posing for pictures for the local pervert, Pearson being some giant rape machine. You know how Chinese whispers are. Give it an hour and they take on a life of their own.

  It’s dirt too good to stay in one room, or one floor even. It spreads across our year and the upper years by morning. The beauty of overnight MSN or a bulletin on MySpace. I’ve seen it happen enough times.

  That night it’s no sleep and all niggles. Neither Moon or Jase call. No one wants to speak to me on MSN. I ask Mum if I can stay off school.

  ‘Is this anything to do with Casey being off the scene?’ she goes, because she’s not stupid.

  (‘What you have to understand is that he’s crushed. He looked up to Casey like another dad. Had done for months. He hasn’t had anyone in his life like that since Jeya left us.’

  I overhear Mum and Mike discussing me on the phone, like I’m another one of Mum’s cases, but I can’t walk in and tell them that Casey isn’t like a father figure at all. More like the other way around. It can’t be my fault if I have a dad I never see, and a mum who takes her sweet time in finding a replacement. Why don’t they just blame my weaknesses for everything?)

  ‘No. I’m just tired. I need a day off to rest.’

  I’ve just left my dinner untouched, which makes it a yes. Mum says I’ve been training too hard lately, that I need to ease up.

  I’m still worrying, not about tomorrow now, but about the day after. Convincing myself of its distance away, I manage to get some sleep. But then, Jason turns up at eight a.m. like he always does, and suddenly Mum doesn’t look so sympathetic. I chuck on my uniform and go in. Fuck it.

  I’m visualising all the way in. Hawk not dove. Hawk not dove. Now’s the time to be moving away from the lion.

  ‘Anything to report?’ I ask him.

  ‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ he goes. ‘Just get on with your day and ignore these idiots.’

  Just as I thought, my front crumbles from the moment I walk past the shops with Jase. Rape-machine is yesterday’s news. Pearson must have been working overtime on MSN last night. There’s too much talk about pretty boys going on in the corridors. Registration feels like something out of the Hutton Inquiry. Way too hostile. Way too much comedy smirking. Everyone throws these looks like I’m the freakboy who’s about to run off with a man who’s not his dad. It’s not enough that they think that I’m gay. They think I’m gay on a BIG scale.

  Before lunch
I have History, Science, Maths. Laughs, laughs, laughs. No one manages to get any work done for all the gossip and sniggering. It was just a regular training programme, I tell them. Learning the kind of techniques that’ll make me a champion. Trying to tough it out and embellish makes it worse. Makes me out to be an on-going faggot with a boyfriend and all that nonsense. I’ve nothing against faggots, I just don’t want to be labelled one. It would have been better if I had been assaulted or something: less sniggering and more sympathy.

  There’s no sign of Pearson, but then there doesn’t have to be. His work is done. Lizzie Jennings, the walking chatroom, takes the baton for the second time in her soft overweight life and runs with it. She has the choice of deciding which should become the lead story. At this point in time, she’s probably the most powerful person in the school. Can make or break either of us. And one who decides to right the humiliation heaped upon her best friend Kelly Button by some chancer who dated her on the rebound. For a ginger fatty, she doesn’t forget much, and that morning works as hard on her choice as I do on the track. Makes sure there’s enough noise about a boy who fancies old men to drown out any mumblings about some rapist and his abortion-magnet girlfriend. I don’t even know if Moon has twigged yet.

  Everyone at school knows about my bizzle by lunchtime. E.V.E.R.Y.O.N.E.com. The only person it doesn’t seem to bother is Jason, possibly because he knows he can fight his way out of anything. We stand in the lunch queue like the bogstandard flashing beacons we are. One hardnut, the other pink and unkosher. But no one dares to shout anything, not with Jase there.

  ‘You’re the talk of the school,’ goes Moon, who crashes the queue and looks flustered. Still not making me sure whether it’s my gossip that’s reddening her cheeks, or hers.

  ‘You should be worried too, shouldn’t you? With all those stories?’ goes Jase.

  ‘Everyone knows the stories about me are bullshit. Even the girls who hate me know that.’

  ‘What makes you think so?’ I go.

  ‘Because no girl, however twisted or messed up, really believes that a woman needs to be punished by gossip just for having consensual sex. I’m pissed that my business is public business, but not over anything else.’

  What clears things up is the way she’s speaking, all matter-of-fact, like some newsreader who keeps harping on with the bad stuff when you don’t want to hear about bombs any more, or innocent people being hit over the head with axes, just ’cos they’ve got brown skin. From anyone else it would sound like the wooden spoon doing 360s, but not from her. From her mouth it’s a grim confirmation, nothing more.

  There’s only Year 9s behind us, who wouldn’t say shit to Sherlock, so we don’t have to worry for a moment. Moon is the Year 9 idol. Kooky has yet to enter their vocabulary, but Moon is most definitely it. Seriously, get Moon in a crowd of Year 9s and the waves part. Something to do her with her mentoring a class last September when they were green and cacking it. She’s the big sister that everyone needs.

  ‘I’m gonna break out this afternoon,’ I go, ‘I can’t bear it. There’s no way I can sit through an afternoon of this.’

  ‘Do what you have to do,’ goes Jase vaguely. ‘In an ideal world, you’d confront Pearson and give him a good kicking.’

  ‘That sounds like the ideal solution,’ goes Moon all sarcastic, a tone we both hate ’cos it makes us both sound like idiots. ‘Show that you’re not gay by beating someone up.’

  ‘Sounds about right to me,’ goes Jase, even more sarcastic than Moon. He’s more pissed at her than he is at either me or Pearson. If we’re going to get all grown-up about it, you could say that he feels betrayed. Moon’s been doing too much of that lately, ignoring any loyalty to her friends in favour of Pearson and his luscious lips; deferring her responsibility.

  Moon gets this and avoids eye contact. Looks down at the pizza on the hot plates like it’s the most interesting convenience food in the world.

  ‘What choice do I have?’ I go. ‘If I don’t do this, then it’s gonna follow me around for ever.’

  ‘Don’t be so dramatic,’ says Moon lamely.

  She knows as well as I do how much worse Pearson can make it for me.

  ‘That wanker needs to say something about me, so that I can get involved,’ goes Jase. ‘I am itching for a re-match.’

  Everyone is fully aware that there’s no way he can dive in otherwise. Them’s the rules. My name being swilled around, my battle – simple as.

  ‘Where is he anyway? Why hasn’t he shown his face?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. We don’t live together or anything.’

  Moon drops the pose and starts to look rattled. It’s the tension on my face, and the fact that I’m speaking through gritted teeth. If I relaxed even slightly, I’d be liable to head-butt the pizza woman or start punching the wall. Away from the track, I’m not so good at keeping my cool. The tension gives away everything.

  It’s an issue that needs addressing. One that can’t be met with a blue bracelet.

  The tables are taken, so we stand in a corner and eat our pizza. We’re not supposed to stand once we’ve got our food, but we do it anyway. What’s the worst they can do, throw us out? One minor victory against a piss-shower of failures keeps us dry for about a second. Jase wants to stage a table takeover but I’m against it. The front tables are full of jocks and their hangers-on, and we’d get slaughtered. I eat my pizza slice in ten seconds.

  ‘This is stupid. I’m gonna go.’

  ‘You can’t leave. Year Head will kill you if she sees you on the CCTV.’

  ‘I’m going to the library. No one’s gonna bother me there.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure,’ goes Jase. In his head, everyone is a conspirator. On the table directly ahead are Pearson’s two best hangers-on lunching with their hangers-on. They grin at me like their Christmas has come early. I don’t leave for the library until I have a second slice of pizza and a drink. I’m no chicken.

  Year Head stops me in the corridor. I’m on my own, Moon and Jase staying to confer/get the gossip they wouldn’t get with me hanging around like a bad smell. I don’t have to turn round to see their expressions: relief that I have finally left them.

  ‘I’m hearing your name mentioned an awful lot this morning Veerapen,’ she goes.

  ‘What can I say? I’m a popular boy.’

  ‘Is there anything you’d like to tell me?’

  We’re standing by her office. Door’s open.

  ‘Why don’t you come in and we can have a chat?’

  Two girls walk past, sports clique wannabees, way below me on the food chain. They exchange a silent conversation as soon as they see me, like I’m some X Factor finalist on my way out. It’s humiliating. This is why I want to get shot of this school. Losers like this are no good for my mental health. I want to become a champion, not a fuck-up.

  ‘I can’t. I need to go to the library.’

  ‘Forget the library. Step inside for a minute.’

  The air in Year Head’s office is incredibly cool. As soon as I sit down – blue leather seat that looks about a hundred years old – I feel the pressure lifting. Being here feels solid and reassuring, the only rational space I’ve entered all day. Like I’ve been airlifted from the big top halfway during a show or something. I’m not a snitch, but I sometimes appreciate being in the company of grown-ups that aren’t parents or perverts.

  ‘You’re not having a good day, by the sounds of it,’ she begins. She’s sitting next to me rather than across the desk, the way she does with girls who get themselves pregnant and are too scared to tell their mums, so I know that she’s expecting me to pour my heart out, or cry at the very least.

  ‘I’ve had better. Mrs Harris gave me a B for my History essay, when it was clearly A-grade calibre. You know, in our parliamentary discussion last week, she said she didn’t agree with coloured people being MPs? Said it wasn’t representative.’

  ‘I’m not talking about your coursework, Veerapen.’

  �
�Or a blatently racist teacher, by the sounds of it. She was saying those things to get a rise out of me. Isn’t that illegal?’

  ‘Look, I can only help you if you tell me what’s going on. I’ve had reports of disruptions in all your classes this morning and I want to get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘Nothing to get to the bottom of. None of this has anything to do with me. I can’t be blamed just because your teachers have no grasp of discipline.’

  ‘I’m never sure whether I should give you special treatment because of your circumstances, but I can, if that’s what you’d like me to do.’

  ‘You’re the Year Head. You should know what to do.’

  ‘You pushed your History teacher, Veerapen.’

  ‘Like I said, she gave me a B. I wasn’t particularly happy about it.’

  ‘Do you think pushing a teacher is acceptable behaviour?’

  ‘It’s not as if she listens to what I’ve got to say. And there wasn’t push, just so you know. I brushed past her to get to my seat.’

  ‘I think we both know that it was more than that.’

  ‘She was trying to get me to sit at the front and I wasn’t even doing anything. It was everyone else who wouldn’t stop talking. She’s got it in for me, like I have to be made an example or something.’

  ‘She must have asked you to move desks for a reason.’

  ‘I was telling Lizzie Jennings to shut up, that’s all.’

  ‘I heard you were telling her more than that.’

  ‘I told her to shut her fat fucking mouth. That what you wanted to hear?’

  This is the only the second time I’ve ever been in Year Head’s office, the first being when I cut Pearson’s head open. From the outside, when you walk along the path to the science labs and peer in, it looks huge. So misleading. When you’re actually in there, it’s as poky as hell and nowhere near as plush as the blue curtains and leather seating suggest. A cupboard with a desk and a couple of Matisse prints ripped from a magazine sellotaped onto the wall (his flowers, not the naked women. We have them at home, that’s how I know.) Her desk is covered with paper and books, but all school stuff, nothing personal aside from today’s copy of The Guardian, a bunch of pickled daffs in a vase that is algae-heavy, and a burnt CD that starts with a ‘C’ – could be either Coldplay or classical. No family pictures like you’d imagine a woman her age to have. Not sure if that’s because she likes to keep her life outside the school just that, or if, as everyone in our year likes to believe, that she’s a possible lesbian.