Graffiti My Soul

by Niven Govinden

  Everything feels the greatest it’s ever felt. I’m with my dad up on the roof, tops off and getting tanned, and now each of us on our second Funny Feet. He doesn’t disappear off into the house for the rest of the afternoon with the woman who later turns out to be the optician for another hour. Leaving me on the roof, ladder tucked away so I can’t get down, until I fall asleep and get sunburnt, and for Mum to find me and go mental. That’s all to come later. Up until then, living at tree height, sun shining, eating our favourite food, making fun of the women in our lives, it doesn’t get better than this.

  40

  Me and Jason are being thrown out of the mall for being lairy. This is Surrey, so it’s done in a very polite way. There’s no one to say you’re out of order or anti-social, especially if you’ve got brown skin or look halfway poor. Those kind of confrontations make everyone uncomfortable. We’re booted out for causing a nuisance and upsetting the old people. The security guy who escorts us out is an all right bloke actually, and quite apologetic, like it’s going to break our hearts if we can’t poke our heads back into Dickins and Jones or Clintons.

  ‘Sorry, lads, but you can’t stay in the centre any longer. You’ve made it impossible, I’m afraid. The police are already on their way.’

  ‘You can’t ban me, mate. I work here,’ goes Jase, flashing his Tesco pass in the guy’s face, back and forth like he’s performing a magic memory trick.

  ‘I’m, like, staff, you get me? We’re, like, colleagues really.’

  The pairs of us giggle like stoners, even though Jason’s brought nothing to smoke. Hasn’t smoked all week. This cracking up for no reason in front of adults is habit, I guess. Making out to them that we have secrets, it’s a stronger impulse than even the weed. We need it.

  Casey knows too much about me. Moon knows too little. I have to feel in control of something.

  The mall post-lunchtime is like a feel-good convention for the elderly. They are all out and being smug about still being so mobile. You can see it plastered across their faces. They almost need mugging just to bring them down to earth – Jason’s words, not mine. Aside from a handful of unemployed scum, there is no one here under the age of sixty. Am not including the young mothers here because they are invisible and don’t count. We can see every defect associated with age on display, from rickety old bones clinging onto zimmer frames, to gum disease, to white-stick blindness, to skin cancers. It’s enough to make you bring up your salad.

  ‘I’d keep that store ID to yourself if were you,’ nods the guy, with a matey-I’m-OK wink. ‘If the centre supervisor sees that, he’ll be onto your bosses in a flash. You could get into even more trouble.’

  Something about us being cheeky to the man at the handcrafted mug stall. Paying our money and then demanding that he inscribe the mugs ‘Happy Birthday Cunt’ (Jase) and ‘World’s Biggest Foreskin’ (me). The banner said ‘Personalise your mug! Any dedication.’ We were just holding him to it. There was no mention that the dedication had to be some lame ass bollox.

  Obviously I don’t have an anorak for my dick, but this guy isn’t to know that. I could have asked for ‘World’s Biggest Kike-Basher’ and he still wouldn’t have put two and two together. Trus’, not having an anorak, it kinda makes you obsessive about having one. It’s fucked up.

  The mug man, this old guy around thirty-five, with one of those ratty free-for-all beards that’s supposed to tell us that’s he’s so organic or something, had no sense of humour. Put down the pen and refused to inscribe anything. Gave us our money back. That’s when we started kicking up a stink, demanding to see the manager.

  ‘This is my stall. I am the manager,’ he kept saying, which made us crack up all the more.

  We were shouting a little and kept picking up all the mugs and pretending to inspect them. He looked almost scared of us for some reason.

  ‘As consumers, we have rights,’ I go, remembering a few of Dad’s best lines. The ones he gave whenever he wanted to show how he was better than anyone who worked in a shop; usually as retaliation for being given too much attitude by shop girls who didn’t like serving anyone with brown skin. I still get that shit even today.

  ‘I am outraged by your treatment and will be writing a letter of complaint.’

  ‘I’m happy to inscribe anything, lads, so long as it’s not offensive. And those words, I’m afraid, are offensive.’

  ‘Which words would they be, mate?’

  ‘I’m not going to be drawn into your childish games by repeating them. You know the words I’m talking about.’

  ‘Fine. Then my letter shall also be copied to the Epsom Chamber of Commerce and Trading Standards, and the local paper.’

  If there was a letter to be sending Moon, I’d send it. Dear Miss Jones, please can you explain why you now prefer the company of psychos over us? I’d update my MySpace profile in a second if there was any guarantee she’d read it. But she’s too busy for computers these days. Being drunk on dating makes you forget all the weird online obsessions you relied upon so heavily to pass the time when you were single and lonely.

  ‘Mate, don’t be such a wuss. Put the pen in your hand and inscribe cunt on my mug, you cunt,’ goes Jase, precisely at the moment the security idiots are doing their rounds – for the sake of the CCTV. They are all questions. If there was a girl with us we’d probably be left alone.

  ‘Why aren’t you at school anyway? It’s two o’clock.’

  ‘Library studies.’

  ‘Mate, haven’t you heard of library studies? What kind of school did you go to?’

  ‘Enough of your lip, cheeky. So why aren’t the pair of you at the library?’

  ‘Because they’re getting some local history files out of storage. Told us to give them twenty minutes.’

  I’ve used this line before. It’s a winner.

  We are asked to move on.

  Then it’s about them not liking how we were spinning the freestanding pine units on display outside Dickins and Jones. We were on one by this point. We just wanted to see how sturdy they were. That’s why Jason was sitting on them whilst I was doing the spinning. Formula One speeds.

  Jason picks me up when I fall over ’cos I’ve been laughing so much. Puts his arms tightly round my middle and lifts me from behind. My stomach does cartwheels.

  Admittedly, the corner unit shouldn’t have been pushed in the direction of the old people but, as we were trying to tell the security after the accident, the casters on the things were fucked. Shoddy workmanship. All we were trying to do was push them back into their original spots. No idea that they would shift in the opposite direction. If Mum took one look at them she’d say they were tat.

  The security guy is standing with his feet apart, like he’s trying to make out he’s had police training. Gives his cheap blazer a brush across the buttons like its fucking Armani and not some synthetic bollox from TK Maxx. Now we’re out of the building, he doesn’t touch us. S’pose he can’t, legally speaking. He does that thing that teachers do when they want you to be reasonable, giving you full eye contact and talking in a conspiratorial way that’s supposed to make you think that it’s the system that’s making things tough, and not them at all.

  We nod like we get it but, man, we’re past the age to be swallowing fairy stories. Too old for that good-cop routine. We puff our chests up and make out we’re scared of nothing. Inwardly, though, cacking it because we’re both in uniform like a pair of retards. Standing out like two unkosher beacons.

  ‘Like I give a shizzle. ’Cos when the police get here, we’ll be, like, dust.’

  Have been listening to too much Wiley lately. On top of Dizzee, I’m sounding as black as you like. When I get all ‘You get me?’ like this, especially in front of the dry security suits, it makes Jason lose his mind with joy. He always wanted a homie for a mate. Surrey – Hackney. There’s no difference.

  We can’t get our bikes, but still manage to have some fun on the way home; a Sri Lankan muppet who has to run all the wa
y up the Downs Road ’cos we’ve jumped him and grabbed his shopping. Sounds a good idea in theory, but running up a hill with five litres of water in one hand and about three thousand potatoes in the other ain’t as easy as it looks. (Not helping ’cos I’m trying to make it look stylish, being a near-professional and all.)

  The bloke’s about twenty-five and darker than my arsehole. When we start attacking the meat of Down’s Hill, getting under a long, wide canopy of treetops, where much of the sunlight gets eaten up, you can barely see him, only judging his movements from the flouro flashes on his Nike, and his gob from when he shouts at us. Pearly whites as a compass, better than any lighthouse.

  ‘Come back with my shopping, you cheap motherfucking bastards! Get your arses back here!’

  He’s got an accent, so I ask him to repeat himself. Several times.

  What kind of manners has this one got? The ruder he gets, the angrier, as I continue to ask him to repeat what he’s just said, running backwards so we’re teeth to teeth, the more certain we are that he ain’t gonna get his aloo gobi gear back.

  ‘Paneer, mate. Say “Paneer”,’ goes Jase, as we reach the top of the hill and the start of the Downs. No longer shielded by the tree canopy, we are overwhelmed by light and sky. Three specs, dotted onto the simplest of natural equations: ground and sky. Feels like we’re running on top of the world.

  ‘What?’ calls the Sri Lankan, still under the canopy, but nearing its end. ‘You want some Paneer? I haven’t got any Paneer.’

  ‘He’s asking you to say cheese, you muppet,’ I call down, helping out. ‘We just need to take a picture.’

  Jase gets what he wants, before we start rolling the guy’s gear back at him down the hill. Asylum-seeker skittles. That, together with the pics, cheer us right up later when we’re round my kitchen, drinking tea and waiting for X Box to load up.

  41

  Pearson doesn’t even try to hide it. I get to my locker at lunch to find YID LIVES HERE tagged onto it. An address card that wasn’t there at 9 a.m. Feel like my insides have been kicked inside out and then some, but get over it in about a minute. The corridor is kinda busy so there’s no point in letting people see you fall to pieces. It’s the kind of evidence we are all looking out for. Some gigantic public fuck-up that you dine off for weeks.

  I know that it’s Pearson because it’s written with a navy Sharpie, and you would never use that if you were a serious tagger. Only pranksters write abuse with a Sharpie. And by pranksters, I mean boys. Girls have more creative forms of torture. Also because I saw him and a couple of the shadier volleyball boys tagging Year Head’s door last year with a scrawl that was too similar to make it a co-incidence – something about her being a lesbian with one of the PE teachers. Gossip that we all knew was pretty much true. Tall, uneven block lettering that looked like the work of someone learning to write the Western alphabet for the first time. The V in LIVES clumsily morphed into an E. Fucking retard. He can’t concentrate for a minute.

  The thin sharpie ink on the locker is dryer than a nun’s cunt, meaning it’s been up there from at least morning break. The corridor where my locker is is mainly for my year and out of bounds for the younger kids. The lettering isn’t big, but it ain’t exactly tiny either. The words running along the bottom of the door like ticker tape, reaching about halfway. Making it clear that a return visit is more or less obvious.

  Pretty much everyone I’m remotely bothered about has probably seen this diss between break and lunch, and no one has seen fit to give me a heads-up on it. That’s a great feeling to start the afternoon with.

  Jason’s got the day off so I can’t blame him. Moon is walking around like someone has kicked her. Tittle tattle getting on top of her. When she’s not hiding under Pearson’s protective chimp arm, she’s scuttling towards the library and the warm arc of Gwyn and Ohmygod. Wonder if she knows about the tagging. Wonder if she worked out how the gossip started in the first place. Egged him on. Maybe she even suggested it. You have to be extra-perceptive to know that I’m part-Jewish. Most people are too caught up in my Tamilness to notice anything else.

  Pearson’s diss fires up an unforeseen reaction in me. It makes me laugh. He may have done his homework, but I can only see the funny side. That Yidding me out is going to tip me over the edge or something. Anything but. I ain’t dropping from any ledge yet. I like the attention too much. Agree or disagree at your leisure, but I find that anti-Semitism makes a pleasant change from Paki-bashing. I’m a strange boy, I admit it. At times, I’m fucking warped.

  PART 4

  42

  Moon makes me wait forty minutes as she turns foxy into FOXY ‘in case the paparazzi turn up’, leaving me to make excruciating small talk with the stern mother. Jason got blasted all night and woke up late. Billie’s still asleep, so we have five minutes absorbing the dampness around his stoop whilst he gets his shit together. I chew my lip inside out in the meantime. Moon takes advantage of the extra minutes to add an extra coat of lipgloss, her fiftieth, judging by the thickness of the final result. We get to Casey’s an hour later than we should have. You can tell he’s been pacing up and down all this time, wondering what the hell is going on, ’cos he opens the front door as soon as he hears our footsteps. Cap and coat on, keys glued onto a sweaty palm. I shrug when our eyes meet. When Moon is getting dressed and whatever else, there’s no point; like, how long is a piece of string?

  ‘You’re late?’ he goes. ‘I didn’t even notice. I wasn’t expecting you ’til after five.’

  I give him the W. Whatever.

  ‘Now get out,’ I say. ‘Give us an hour. Go for a run or something. Mum will be here any minute.’

  He eyes up our serious amount of baggage with suspicion. We’re loaded with carriers and mysterious unmarked holdalls.

  ‘You’re not gonna mess up anything, are you? I don’t want any of my stuff touched up or played around with.’

  ‘Casey, you’ve got nothing to mess up, remember?’

  ‘Hey! I might not have much, but I like what I have. Just respect my things, that’s all I ask.’

  ‘Case, this isn’t a makeover,’ I say. ‘We’re just doing a little summat summat. Chill, guy.’

  ‘Go on,’ goes Moon, giving him a little push the way I would never dare. ‘Give us time to make everything nice.’

  Jase won’t stop staring at Casey, but we all pretend not to notice.

  Kicking someone out of their flat before their surprise party isn’t ideal, but we didn’t have anywhere else we could do it. In real estate terms, there was a scarcity of premium locations.

  Mum was keen on helping, part of her new phase in ‘Understanding the Child’, but refused outright to have the party at our house.

  ‘There’s no way we could have that kind of event here, Veerapen. Casey’s or any other party. I mean, come on! I’m busy enough as it is.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have to do anything. I’d take care of all of it.’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

  ‘This is pathetic. Being in this house is like living in a dodgy African state. I can do whatever I want, so long as it’s your way.’

  ‘My way or the highway, son. Your choice. I’ve told you I’ll help, but we’re not going to do any entertaining here.’

  ‘Is that what you told Dad? My way or the highway?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you want me to go to Germany? Is that it?’

  I didn’t get a slap, but she did try to shake me. Small woman five-foot-five trying to shake the brains out of a six-foot lug. I would have laughed if she hadn’t thrown herself into acting so crazy.

  We didn’t speak for two days, which isn’t that much different to how our relationship can be from time to time, when she’s got stuff on her mind and gets drawn back into the arms of the pity party. She couldn’t work out whether she should continue to ‘Understand the Child’, or if she should throw the book out the window. If anything, episodes like this, with the full-on silent treatment, leav
ing me to get my own dinner, give unexpected freedoms. Gets her off my back.

  The compromise was that we’d hold the party at Casey’s, so long as he was up for it, but I hadn’t hedged any bets on Mum or anything. During our two-day skirting around Coventry, I pursued up every other opportunity. Jase said over his dead body, even though Billie would appreciate the company; Moon loved the idea but knew she wouldn’t get it past The RottweilerTM, who was only liberal when she wanted to be. I even thought of swallowing some pride and chatting to Brendan about using the Harrier Centre, but stopped myself when I realised that even if he did agree, there was no guarantee that Casey would set foot there. And then there was the Christian Fellowship . . . but there was no way I was asking about that. If Mum can’t get me into a synagogue, there’s no way in hell I’m going to be organising raves at some backstreet chapel where they’re too forgiving for their own good.

  It was this or nothing.

  Jase has been saying the same thing for the past ten minutes.

  ‘He lives on the Rose estate? The council put him on the Rose estate? Man! How fucked up are they?’

  Casey’s house, the one that was burnt down, wasn’t council, but was only about five streets from here. Seems worlds away from what he had before. That’s the power of arson, I guess. Your last bastion of security stripped in the time it takes for your house to be levelled to the ground.

  Me and Casey never talk about how warped the relocation decision was; ‘new home, new start,’ is the most I can get out of him, but Jase is right, as always. It was twisted.

  ‘He’s innocent, Jason. He can live where he pleases,’ said Moon. ‘And also, you guys, he keeps it low-key round here. Kids too busy racing cars to notice him.’