Graffiti My Soul (3 page)

I'm at the early stages here, so everything I picture is pretty obvious. In recent competitions, particularly the 100m, where any advantage on the opposition is welcome, I've used the image of a girl waiting at the finishing line; hot pants, baseball cap, bare tits, and holding a can of ice-cold Pepsi. It sounds cheesy, but she's won me two races. Depending on how the run is going, who the actual woman is can vary, from Carmen Electra, to Mrs Maude, the geriatric who runs the library. Also, this morning, I seem to be visualising the whole of Moon's left tit – the only one I managed to clock last night (Jason's mouth was pretty much clamped on the other).

On the longer runs, and also in training, I'm a lion, breaking the
leash and roaring to victory, to devour my bareback girl. I know that there are faster cats that I could visualise, but it's the lion I like. Hair wild and rangy, something like mine (can't work out whether that's the Tamil gene, or the Jew gene). A fierce, fast, ferocious hunter, capable of giving any opponent a good mauling.

Casey calls a take-five, must have done, as he's now lying on his back with the paper. I'm still proving my point with the reps. I do that sometimes when I'm running, zone out. Really believe in my ability to kick ass.

‘Come on, you young Turk,' he goes. I've told him before I'm Indian, not Turkish, but he never seems to remember.

‘It's seven-thirty. Cigarette punishment is over. Say ten Hail Marys, and make a promise to Jesus, or whomever you pray to, that you'll never touch the weed again. Not if you're serious about your sport, that is.'

‘I am serious, you fruit,' I laugh, as we head towards the car park.

He lets me call him a fruit from time to time, so long as I make it sound jokey and not malicious.

‘Want a ride home?'

He asks me this at the end of every session. Today, his tone suggests that his heart is in it more than usual. Normally, he makes it sound desperate. This time, it looks like he means it, really needs to have me in the car.

‘No thanks, Casey. I'm best walking.'

‘OK, young Turk.' He turns quickly to the car, a solitary hand held behind. Useless at hiding his disappointment.

Casey's feelings fly over my head once we are off the track. I'm not stupid. I know you can only trust a fruit so far. By the time I reach the park gates, and Casey has got into his Clio, I've already forgotten about him.

6

Everyone calls me Veerapen. It's a family name, that's why I've got it. Veerapen Prendrapen. Some bright idea of Dad's. Had a heritage bee in his bonnet. Name your son after your grandfather, and then bugger off. How's that for motivation? Mum, who's from Bexhill, and very much not a Tamil, wanted to call me Ari, or Alexander. Thought they were classier. She lost the fight on the first name, possibly because Dad went to register my birth on his own, when he told her he was going out to get a nappy bin. As consolation, he went with her choice of middle name, Isaac. You get me? I'm a VIP. The only kosher Tamil in Surrey.

I don't have an abbreviation, a nickname. I could use the VIP, but would have to let on about the Isaac. I only let Casey call me V-pen because I feel sorry for him; because possibly I'm the only friend he's got. Anyone else is having a laugh if they think they can short-change Veerapen into an acceptable variant. I had all the V-is-for-Vera bullshit when I was at primary school, and Vera Duckworth, and V-for-vagina. I had to kick it all out of them. Veerswamy, Vondripen, Very Pen, Pig Pen, Cow Pen, Play Pen. Kind of enjoyed it. Really got a buzz when some kid thought they had a bright idea. Every booting got me higher up the ladder.

Vera will crop up every now and again, usually when some new tosser tries to become popular with the group by trying to pick on the Paki. But he gets the wrong Paki. I'm six foot, so you shouldn't mess with me unless you really think you can have a go. When you hear ‘Oi, Vera' bellowed down the corridor, it's like a siren telling you to run for cover. Anyone who's in the way is just as likely to get thumped. I had to prove a point fairly similar to this about a week ago. You should have seen the tumbleweed once I'd clocked the guy
who'd spat it. It was like some
Matrix
shit, the way I was flying about.

Luckily, Jase is around to back me. This guy's brought two mates with him, one of them being Chris Pearson. Bust lips, dented egos, chipped tooth, broken finger, and a kick in the head. My favourite moment is when Jase holds the guy down, and I stamp on his face. We are all fight, us kids.

7

Moon's in my room, testing me on questions that may come up on a forthcoming High School Challenge. Mum should be doing it, but has been called out because some old biddy has fallen down the toilet pan or something. I'm lucky to still be on the team after what happened to that guy's face, but the semis were coming up and they needed me. There wasn't enough of a talent pool in that school for a sub. I was let off with a warning. Two of the guys, who were caught putting the wrong boot in at the wrong time, were suspended. Pearson and Jase got the same deal as me: nag fucking nag. As usual, I kept it all from Mum.

‘What's the capital of Australia?'

‘Is that the hardest question you got? This is supposed to be the semis.'

‘Stop stalling, idiot, you either know it or you don't. What's the capital of Australia?'

She's in a bad mood because she missed the fight, and also because there's been no text from Jase since he had a nibble on her nipple.

‘Darwin.'

‘Ha! Canberra.'

‘Fuck! Like they're going to ask me that anyway.'

‘Don't get all sniffy, thick boy. Remember how that African kid
from Hampton Wick didn't know the new name for Bombay? Lost them the comp. He looked like he was going to top himself when we saw them in the car park afterwards, remember?'

‘We were pelting their bus with stones, Moon, that may explain his petrified look.'

‘Possibly. But you obviously need a few more hours with an atlas, and less time cleaning up the school corridors.'

Her annoyance at not being called to watch the fight was, again, noted.

‘Any chance I can come to training tomorrow?'

‘At six a.m.? You're having a laugh, aren't you? Not even the rapists are out at that time of the morning.'

‘Don't be stupid. I'll be making an entrance, well after six-thirty. Just thought you might need some encouragement. And I haven't seen you run for a while.'

‘And this has nothing to do with you wanting to get up close and personal with the town kiddie fiddler?'

More to do with Jase being there. I'd mentioned he might be popping down earlier.

‘It's been bugging me. I want to see what he looks like.'

‘You've seen the papers, you know what he looks like.'

‘Not in the flesh. I want to see how he acts around you and everything. I may spot something you don't … and I've got my new camera phone. Might be worth a couple of quid.'

‘No one's interested in a picture of Casey.'

‘I reckon your mum might be.'

‘Moon, he's a good trainer. I don't need you baiting him.'

‘Duh! Like I'm that thick. I'll take the dog out with me. He's never seen us together, right? What could be more natural – girl taking her dog out for a shit first-thing?'

I'm about to spam Moon with my mouse-mat for lowering the tone of the conversation, but Mum pops her head round, fresh from the pensioner crisis. It had been a fairly serious stroke, and nothing to do with the toilet. She has the polite face she reserves for
visitors, even though it's only Moon, who doesn't count. Holds a smile that's attentive but slightly sad. Means that the guy who had the stroke probably died.

She holds a bag of Chinese.

‘Dinner for three,' she says. ‘Don't worry, Moon, I've just seen your mum. It's fine. How are the questions going?'

The whiff from the noodles gives me instant memory loss. We virtually bulldoze her to the plates downstairs and polish off the lot. I don't remember to ask Mum how she's doing.

8

‘Shall I give her one?' asks Jase. ‘Something's telling me she's up for it.'

We're having an impromptu rest from technology. Options are limited so we're taking refuge down the ropey. Mum's got the afternoon off and is pampering herself with smelly shit. His mum has agoraphobia brought on from his sister and the hit and run, and never leaves the house. It's cold but at least we can piss about without getting shouted at. I don't like busting lessons, what with me being on a short lease after the fight and all, but Jason's in a good mood and talks me into it.

‘I've got an iPod, what more can they teach me about technology,' he goes, as we brazen it out of the gates. Praying that the cameras aren't switched on. It's all about the frontin'. (They usually switch them off during lesson-time to save money. It's common knowledge amongst the dealers.)

Jason has a fuzzy skinhead, like playdough that has gone black and started to leach out, and is lanky lanky lanky. You can get away with calling him lurch if you're a mate, otherwise expect a blow to the balls. Like I've said, I'm six foot, give or take, and he's already
towering way over me. Makes you wonder why anyone would want to have a go – but they still want to try it. The Goliath principle, I presume. Everyone wants to tackle the monster.

He's a funny boy, is Jase, but what I like the most about him, aside from the fact that he's so dumb with his goofy jokes and shit, is that he has this energy that is mad unpredictable and comes out of nowhere. There's a charge that comes out of him that can give anyone standing near an electric shock. Moves like a very tall featherweight. I've had it a couple of times, so I know what I'm talking about. One minute you're outside the offie and talking to people and everything's all easy, the next he's over in a corner without his legs even moving, and he's got the guy by the phonebox in a headlock, and all without a word; bish bash, nice to meet ya, crack. I'm never bored when he's around.

I'm a good boy really, but I won't lie about it; I like the street violence around here. It's probably one of the reasons I'll never move out of Surrey.

Today he's carrying, so we're smoking a couple. You kind of have to if you're out with Jason, that's the rules. I'm having one puff out of every five, doing a Bill Clinton with the inhalations. Ever so gently, since my lower lip is still the size of a fish slice after last week's Vera-baiting. I'm not a wuss. I just have a race in two days' time, and want to win. Jason's guzzling enough for both of us anyway. He barely notices what I'm doing – and what I'm not.

‘Should I give her one?' he repeats.

‘Why?'

‘Why not? She's hot. V, you've been busy lately with your running and that nerd stuff. You're not paying attention to what's going on. You should see how she looks at me.'

He's the only person I let call me V.

‘And how does she look at you?'

‘Like she wants to eat my dick.'

We laugh like a pair of duffuses.

‘Well,' I go, in my posh voice, ‘speaking as someone who's already sampled the goods, I'd say she's well worth boning.'

‘Are you saying you've done her? And not told me?'

‘It was the Christmas holidays. She was bored. I was bored …'

I'm more stoned than I realise. Moon is going to kill me.

‘What do you make of this?' I'm saying quickly, pulling a letter from my bag, realising that I don't really want to get into what I got up to with Moon. Also, trying to play it cool, because the last thing I want is him getting any further than her tits.

Jason does a double take and starts chanting, pulling out a similar letter from his jacket.

‘Who's bad? Who's bad? Who's bad? Who's bad? Shit, I knew there was something I wanted to tell you.'

The letters are from the school to our parents, telling them that their children are shit.

‘We're in for it, aren't we?' he goes, after scanning my letter.

They are the same word for word, even down to the spelling mistakes – an extra c in fracas, and one n too many in unprovoked. The Year Head is requesting a meeting at our parents' earliest convenience. We don't see either of them being free for that meeting. Ever.

Jase hands over his letter and I stuff both of them in the tree. Push them as far down as I can manage, grazing my fingers as I pull them out. We could have started a nice little bonfire instead, but Jase hasn't got much lighter fuel left and is being stingy. The tree is hollow at a certain point of entry, round halfway up. The only way you'd find it is by climbing the thing. And there's little chance of that round here. Most of the guys at our school are happy to stand outside the offie and get pissed. No one is interested in climbing a fucking tree. Not unless you're using it as practice to get up drainpipes.

‘Teachers are always busy,' I go, once I'm back on my feet and dusting down.

‘You think?'

‘Chances are, they'll be too stressed with the key stage tests to worry about us. Anyway, who's going to remember a small scuffle when Lucy Gilbert has just been knocked up?'

‘You're funny, d'you know that, V?'

Jason is so far gone now, he's grinning like one of those kids who's been shot-up with too much Ritalin. I might as well be talking to myself.

9

This is how we have our fun: Friday night, cold and clear. Riding our bikes from Broadhurst to Auriol. A two-mile circuit that takes in the best of our area: video shops, kebab shops, offies, pubs, posh coffee bars, and more old people's hairdressers than there are old people. None of these interest us. We've already had a drink, and we don't want to have our hair done. Our rule is that we'll lap and lap until we find someone to have fun with. This will normally be in Auriol, where it's more densely wooded than Broadhurst, and is less hardcore with the street lighting.