Graffiti My Soul (15 page)

We sit over the door with our food, dangling our feet over the edge. Dicing with death. This must be what it feels like for people who jump out of buildings, except they probably don't have cheese string and Funny Feet. Only tears. They probably aren't wearing Buzz Lightyear flip-flops either. The flips themselves are kinda gay, but the Buzz picture on the soles are boss, that's why I'm wearing them. Jason takes the piss every time he sees me wear them, which is every day, but he's only jealous because I got them first. His feet have been sweating it out in a pair of Reebok all summer. They must stink.

Dad is also sweating like a pig, but that may be because he's eaten most of a microwaved chorizo and a jar of Indian pickle. He joins me on the Funny Feet. Him on his first, me on my second. I follow his moves, biting the big toe in one large chunk, and then nibbling
the shorties; Dad making both of us laugh by pretending they're Mum's corny, bunioned feet.

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 swal
lowing 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 way 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.

P
ART
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, leaving 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 Rottweiler
^TM
, 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.'

Jase doesn't let it go, like he should.

‘But the Rose estate? Man, someone in the council's got a sick sense of humour to be sending him here. It's like being thrown to the piranhas.'

‘This part of the Rose estate ain't bad. They've put him in with the Poles and the Afghans, and whoever else has rolled over here to milk our welfare system, so aside from the odd wife-beating
incident, and the cars, it's one of the areas where everyone keeps themselves to themselves.'

If you talk for long enough, and clearly enough, with no distraction, and pure conviction, you can stop any amount of needless digging. Even if it makes you look like a first class W to the A.N.K.E.R. It's something I learned when Mum and Dad were at their bloodiest. Anything to stop the elephant from being in the room.

I give Jason the bag with the balloons. Me and Moon get busy with the banners and arranging the furniture.

‘This is the last time, by the way,' goes Moon, as we lug the sofa more centre-stage. ‘From tomorrow, I'm officially the girlfriend. I'm strictly by appointment.'

She's wearing his yellow plastic cancer bracelet on her left wrist. It legalises everything.

I go through the top kitchen cupboards for glasses just so I wouldn't have to listen to any more. Mum had said she'd get a pack of plastic party cups, but it's better to be prepared. Even with a list she's liable to flap and forget things.

Moon had pushed the low coffee table into a corner and sprung out the camp chairs we'd brought over. Jase was fiddling about with the stereo.

‘This tuner is bo-lax. All I can get are the talking stations.'

‘Oh! No music?' goes Moon, disappointed, like it's her party or something.

‘Nada. Left my iPod at home. Anyone bring theirs?'

Chorus of No's all round.

‘It's because we're on the outer reaches of the Rose,' I go, explaining the tuning, ‘it's like being at the end of the world when everyone thought it was flat. It's like being in Portugal or New Zealand, depending on which century you choose.'

‘We can't have a party without music, boys. A party without music isn't a party.'

‘I think he's got a Bedingfield CD somewhere.'

‘Fuck that shit, I'd rather have the talking station.'

‘Jason! Can you try and start the afternoon without being so sour?'

‘The guy might know something about running, but that doesn't stop him from being a giant sleazebag.'

‘Hype, Jason. Spin.'

‘Spin, my arse. Tell that to V. He had him running about in the rain last week 'til he was soaked through. What was it you were wearing, again?'

‘Vest and shorts.'

‘You see, vest and shorts! So you ran in vest and shorts until everything was see-through. Does that sound normal to you?'

‘It wasn't like that. We were running out of time, and we had a lot of exercises to cover.'

‘Stop stirring, Jason. I think Casey's all right. He helped me out the other night when he didn't have to.'

‘Your mini-meltdown at midnight. When you needed a lift home from the station. I heard.'

‘I'll pretend I didn't hear the sarcasm in your voice, Jason, only your deep concern. So let's just give him a chance, eh?'

Moon was throwing a couple of those big paper serviettes over the coffee table as she played peacemaker, placing the glasses and plates on top.

‘It's all about dressing the table. The Rottweiler
^TM
taught me when she hosted a couple of parties for the Lib Dem candidate, Peter whateverhisnamewas. “A tablecloth will transform a table,” she'd say, “or at least a couple of napkins, if you're pressed for time and don't have the desired facilities.”'

‘So your mum's become a one-woman finishing school?' I go. ‘What happened to Oxford?'

‘Of course I'm going to Oxford, that's a given. But she wants me to be a lady too.'

Me and Jase giggle like idiots.

Bedingfield is found and chucked on. We put the garage track on loop, 'cos that's the only one we can stand. We perch across the stools
and sip the last of Moon's Tango from the rinsed-but-not-dried glasses. No one is keen to sit on the sofa.

‘Remind me why we're doing this again?' goes Jase.

‘Because it's Casey's birthday and he deserves to have some kind of party. If it was left to him, he wouldn't tell a soul, and it'd go unmarked.'

‘Imagine how you'd feel if no one knew about your birthday. Wouldn't it make you feel lonely? Gwyn went round one year saying that birthdays were just a Western extravagance, and that, as she was no longer a child, she didn't want to celebrate it. But on the day, she was still gagging for her cards and presents and a piece of cake.'

‘Sounds fucking brilliant. No obligations, or having to fix your face when presented with cheap useless shit you never even asked for.'

My phone goes.

‘I'm coming up the stairs,' says Mum, ‘so get the door open. I don't want to have to set down all these bags just to ring the bell, and then have to pick them up again.'

I want to tell her that she could use her nose or her forehead the way paraplegics do, but know when to keep it zipped.

Mum's brought most of Tesco with her.

‘It's too much,' I say, ‘you've spent fortunes.'

‘Don't make a song and dance. Most of it's on offer.'

Once unpacked, the table groans under the weight of crisps, nachos, chocolate cornflake treats, cupcakes, cold sausage rolls, hot turkey twizzlers, cheese and tom sandwiches, egg sandwiches, baby Yorkshires, crudités, dips, hummus, salad, mini muffins, mini quiches, apples and satsumas. It was the kind of display you want to show any passing alien: this is the food of our people, come taste.

With the balloons up in each corner of the room and flanking the banner (fixed, refixed, and fixed again) across the doorframe, Bedingfield turned up to seven, everything feels right. Party in waiting.

Mum and Moon took the stools, leaving me and Jase to stand around the place, unsure whether to lean against the wall or kneel
at their feet like lapdogs. We held our glasses clumsily. There was much watch-fiddling on Mum's part, followed by tutting, followed by discreet snacking.

‘He's cutting it a bit fine, isn't he? You know I'm not staying long, as I'm meant to be going out with Mike.'

‘That's a shame, Vivienne. You could have brought him to the party.'

Mum laughed as if the likelihood of that suggestion would kill her.

Her eyes had been taking in every inch of the place since her arrival. Her training as a district nurse taught her not to turn her nose up, as on a day-to-day her workplace varied from Edwardian mansions on the Downs to caravans on the industrial estate. Her job was to dispense care to whomever required it and not necessarily to pass judgement on how they lived, except in cases where it had an impact on health. I knew that Mum prided herself on her ability to take her kit bag and go anywhere and make herself welcome. Still, she couldn't escape the pull of her two strongest genes: Jew and Bexhill. She could hide it from Moon and Jase, who were unschooled, but not from me. The tiniest pinch across the bridge of her nose, a tick repeated every few minutes as she came across something else she found distasteful: an absence of skirting boards, the dull sheen on the carpet, the lack of furniture, the thick balsa doors that looked faintly institutional, the smell, one that was unapologetically male, which permeated every room, a window-sill free of any birthday cards other than the ones that we've brought. Far from being angry, as I should have been, I knew I'd only giggle if our eyes crossed to share her secret assessment: what a loser, what a dump.

It was the first enjoyable thing that we'd shared for several days – a little piece of nastiness at Casey's expense.

We got the bell because I still had his keys. Whilst Mum went to answer the door, I left them on the corner of the table, between the French Fancies and the Turkey Twizzlers. The music was loud-ish, but we could still hear their voices as they spoke in the corridor. Mum had
her work voice on, which meant, as friendly as she was being, he was one step removed from her. No matter what part Casey played in my life, he'd always be an acquaintance, a contact, nothing more. He could help me win the Olympics and she'd still shake his hand like a stranger.

Moon and Jase moaned the moment she left the room.

‘She didn't bring any wine! What's going with that?'

‘I only said I'd come if you got a couple of bottles in!'

‘As if that was ever going to happen,' I go. ‘This is the real world, guys, not some fantasy free-for-all. She isn't going to leave us with a load of alcopops to get pissed whilst we're in suspicious company.'