Graffiti My Soul (18 page)

Short. Moustache. Thick black hair that's both wiry and wavy, cut
into the style of a university lecturer circa 1975. Pudgy. A face that looks like it enjoys a great quantity of food. He has round and heavy cheeks that were born to be smothered in curry sauce or mayonnaise. He looks like a guy who couldn't stop traffic, let alone stop thieving down Tesco.

‘What's all this Keith business?' I go. ‘Couldn't you have given me some prior knowledge or something?'

‘Leave him alone. Keith's all right.'

Don't start loading me up with Munchausen's By Proxy or whatever it's called, I don't have Sri Lanka-phobia or anything. I just have a problem with anyone whose eyes start gleaming whenever they bump into a guy who's painted the same shade of brown. Don't get me wrong, I'm nowhere near as dark as Birthname-Roospen-Stagename-Keith, but I doubt that's going to stop him. In the ethnic desert that is North East Surrey, I appear as a mirage, an oasis. The temptation will prove too much.

‘All right, lads,' he goes, friendly enough, but still proving me right. Looking me up and down in a couple of seconds like he's getting a biometric print, going at it until he's satisfied he's identified my full genetic history and is able to tell me the exact vendor from which my great-aunt gets her milking goats. Is it any wonder that I do my best to avoid eye contact? I just want my beer, not a layman's account of my family tree.

‘How's things going at home? Your mum looked much better when I saw her outside the pharmacy last week.'

‘That's great that you think so. She has been a lot better the last couple of weeks. Having my auntie down has helped. You met her, didn't you? That time they came down to Tesco.'

‘Ah, yes. Maureen. Tall lady.'

‘That's the one. She got Mum to break some of those routines she'd gone back into. You know, staying in bed all day, keeping the curtains drawn, that kind of thing.'

‘Your auntie sounds like a good person.'

‘She's amazing. She, like, saved my life. And Mum's.'

‘I'm pleased to hear it. Is your mother ready to be receiving visitors? This place has a shift system too, can you believe it? And I'm on earlies next week, so I could come by after work one afternoon, if that would work.'

‘That would definitely work! She'd love that. So would Auntie Maureen. Any excuse to get the china out.'

Jason's voice had changed completely. He lost the drawl and got a grip on his consonants, kept the vowels tight and clipped. His hair wasn't parted to the side with a cowlick like some under-the-thumb church boy, but it may as well have been. The grown-up conversation with an adult without an ounce of cockney, it wasn't how I was used to seeing him. I stood there, my mouth open like a fish, looking a dork.

Second time tonight, the dork-isms. I was keeping count.

I don't know what I was more surprised about, that I didn't know he was so friendly with the darkie, or that I was completely oblivious to how bad his mum had gotten again. I was too busy checking the darkie out to wonder why Jason had stopped confiding in me.

The thing with Sri Lankans is that they have this kind of dark skin, kinda like old sodden wood left to rot in a derelict house, which makes it impossible to tell his age. You can call me racist if you like, but it's my own parents' fault for not making a proactive effort with me to mix with other darkie children when I was growing up. There were a couple of brothers I vaguely remember when I started infants, father from Madagascar, mother from Uganda, and there was this Brazilian kid Gabriel who came round to tea a few times and who Mum used to think was so polite and charming, though that didn't stop him nicking five pounds from my birthday money jar. But they were only moments, brief friendships that never came to anything. Once we moved to Surrey it was game-over at the Commonwealth Institute. Not that my parents did anything underhand, they were busy working. We were the only spot of beige in an area that was blindingly white. They just didn't think. And then Dad ran off, and I was the only brown spot left. It's the kind of upbringing that's meant to turn you into a radical black panther, or, in my case,
an enlightened Jew-Tamil Tiger. But I'm dead inside, man, blunted by TV, and girls, and the promise of what I can do when I slip on my running shoes, and the sniff of freshly burning weed at five paces. I got no energy left to be all radical, no time left for brotherhood – maybe for a kid who's grown up the way I did, but not for some be-pleasing-you-sir who's just stepped off the boat. They mean nothing to me. It might sound rough, but that's just how it is.

We did get what we came for, however, two kiddie sippy cups filled to the brim and covered with a lid to avoid any awkward questions.

‘Christ! What's his game?'

‘Leave him alone, I said. He's all right.'

‘Your mate “Keith” has given us shandy, like we're kids or something. Go on, taste it!'

‘What's the problem? You never drink more than half a bottle anyway.'

‘I thought we were getting real beer, not this watered-down muck.'

‘You're very picky all of a sudden, V. We haven't been entirely swindled, there's still beer in there.'

‘Whopee-do!'

‘And if you start drinking up, we can go back and get a top-up.'

‘I think I'll just chuck mine in this plant pot and dream of the real thing.'

‘Suit yourself. Give it here then and I'll drink it. Stupid to waste it, now it's in our hands and everything.'

‘If you're going back for more, Jase, you're on your own. I'm not going to forsake the sanctity of my family history for another teensy cup of warm shandy.'

‘What are you going on about?'

‘Long story. Listen, how come he knows so much about your mum, and I don't? What's that about?'

‘'Cos you don't ask, V. You don't ask.'

If there wasn't anyone around, and I was a more comfortable kinda fella, I'd put my arm round his shoulder, and tell him that I'm always around to talk about his mum, that I'm not as selfish as I appear to
be. It's what I really want to do, slip my left arm over his left shoulder, turn my body into his, feel a little closeness, try to make real some of the stuff that sits in my head. But I'm way too scared to do anything. You don't get this shit going down round here. Jase is looking out onto the lanes and shifts a little, feels my breath on his cheek and moves back, seeming to read my mind, the way I'm unable to read his.

There's a few kids in our year who are making the most of the lanes, but no one worth talking too. Satellite mates, you know the kind. Fine for five minutes but not the kind of folk you'd miss if they were killed in a road traffic accident or anything. Jesus, what is with my mind tonight? We get chips, soggy with vinegar and criminally anaemic from the microwave, and sit on the banquette that overlooks the centre lanes. It's only place worth sitting. If you sat in the diner section, the way lot of the kids do, you don't get to see anything: who comes, who goes, the aggro over scores, the fights. It really is the best spot.

An extra order of chips later and there's still no one about of any note. Jase txts a couple of troublemakers to see where they're at, both of them bouncing back notifications of Park and Odeon. Even with a shandy inside me (I changed my mind), the night feels like a washout.

And then they're here. They're here. I'm not saying that I've gone all soppy and hear some kind of special music every time I see her these days, but I'm not exactly lying either. There is something special that happens when she enters a place. She's still not the most popular girl (quite the opposite – none of the high school bitches can work out what she's doing with Pearson), but somehow she manages to alter the vibe of a room, the chemistry as soon as she appears . . . or as soon as I see her anyway. We were sitting on a banquette covered in crumbs, watching a load of kids make a cack-fisted attempt to bowl, with some lame watered-down R&B coming from the speakers above our heads. Wacko on a big scale, a painful excuse for a night out. But then Moon's in the room, and everything starts to fizz. The music gets slightly better, the shandy seems to have a stronger kick, the kids bowling start picking up a rhythm, with that hefty and satisfying clack of bowl meeting skittle becoming faster, harder, more frequent.

Pass the cheese, please, but it's true, man. Moon's the reason for everything.

She's the only girl in Pearson's group. It's him and a couple of the volleyball idiots. We give a couple of whassups. Pearson nods his head up and down at me so quick it's like he's got palsy. He's not even looking at me when he does it, just the side of his head does a quick move in my direction. That's not respect, it's some bogus bollocks just to make him look friendly in front of his crowd. Jason, Jesus, Jason gets a fucking hug! It's enough to make me want to kick things off, but I know what the deal is with Pearson. It's a given. I can't go crying every time he tries to shut me down like that. Which is why, still seated, unlike Jason who's up on his feet, I'm Pearson's mirror, less palsy-like but still the same up-down; whassup, mate, good to see ya. This muppet is looking at the king of shut-downs. I ain't going anywhere.

‘Hey,' goes Moon to the pair of us, but no hug, what with her being a taken lady and all. This week, hugs are no longer appropriate. She seems to have forgotten about how she last visited me a week ago . . . when we did more than just hug.

‘We're just going to start our game. We'll catch up with you guys later.'

Is that all I get? I ain't greedy, but is that all I get? I haven't seen Moon for two days, haven't spoken to her for three. She talks at us like we're people who took a science class together, like, four years ago or something. Married lady stuff – this week at least. A fake brightness in the voice, and facially, shutters down. Her way of avoiding an argument; a maturity that's hard to swallow.

I look at their feet and see they've already got the stupid shoes on, ready to take to the floor.

‘Hey, Pearson,' I go, ‘aren't you gonna change into your bowling shoes before you get going?'

He's so thick it takes him a few seconds to get the diss. Not the others, including Jase, they're already cracking up. I've kept it upbeat, so it sounds friendly and not like I'm dissing the arse of the cunt.

‘Yeah, funny,' he goes, but he doesn't rise to it. Been there too many times before, we're both tired of it. And he's got the girl on his arm, that's the clincher. I can try and make him look like a muppet all I like, it ain't gonna make any difference.

And then, when I think he's swallowed it like a lemon, he calls back.

‘Yo, Jase, we got a spare place on the team, if you wanna play. Go get some shoes, if you're up for it.'

They're already on their way to the far end of the lanes, playing by the twenty-something couples because they're oh-so mature. They don't wait to see the look on Jason's face, they don't have to. They know he'll come. So do I. And I get it, I do. Jase is loyal, but he's lonely. For him, bonding with someone at a mate's sleepover means friends for life. I'm pissed, but can't be really pissed if he wants to go play. It's Jase, innit.

Moon is the one who looks back, sees Jase as his ears break into a should-I-shouldn't-I dance. Flapping like Dumbo. She watches as I take his shandy and push him in the direction of the fit black girl with the good honey weave in the centre booth where they swap the shoes.

‘Go on, mate. I'm cool watching here with my watery shandy.'

You gotta do it, haven't you? Getting into a denial twist with your closest friends is only gonna get your head messed up otherwise.

I'm like some old hippy, really. Everyone should be free to do what they wanna do, or something.

Moon is wearing the top I bought her, the H&M number I picked up when she had me over a barrel over some evidence. A baby-blue sweatshirt with some OK-looking graffiti on it, old-fashioned New York subway stuff that makes you look like a rapper from 1982. It took me ages to find that jumper. Had to go to three different branches to find it. So she's got no right to stand there and give it the silent lip in support of Pearson whilst she's wearing the top I bought her. Does she even remember where it came from? When she takes it off, she can give all the wordless judgement she likes. Until then, she needs to shut it. I'm not afraid of going over and taking it off, if I have to. I'm not.

Jesus. This was only s'posed to be a random night out, no aggro. I've only said about five words and I'm a fucking mess.

The shandy in my hands is now tepid and gag-inducing, but I force the last of it down. Martyrdom is what I do best, ha ha. I go to Keith for a top-up. All things considered, he's probably my best friend in this place right now.

There's a grubby little Goth kid working the bar too, but I wait for Keith to clear his side of the queue before I place my kiddie sippy cup back on the counter.

‘You're back for more? Boy, you can put it away, Veerapen!'

‘Yeah, I'm a regular big drinker. I'm like the guys back home,' I go, ‘where they sit under their coconut trees drinking rum.'

I've got no idea what Sri Lanka is like, but presume they have coconut trees like they have in Mauritius. Same colour skin, same lifestyle I reckon. This is closest I've got to breaking my self-induced racial autism. Normally I can't even look these people in the face.

‘You want something stronger than shandy?'

He's laughing now, at my brazen Tamil-ness. Also, the Goth kid has disappeared somewhere now that the queue has been dealt with, leaving us to talk freely.

‘Whatever you can give me, my man. Load me up.'

‘That kind of night? It looks like you're having fun over there, now your friends have turned up.'

‘Don't believe everything you see, Keith. I'm hating every minute.'