Graffiti My Soul (10 page)

Coming straight to the point, cutting the bullshit, is one of the few similarities between us. Correction, a similarity I
remember
being between us. I haven't seen him for so long I don't know what he's like any more.

So at next training, I'm ready to grill Casey about what he was doing at Britney with that random kid. It said on the news last year that the subject of Casey's investigation was eleven or twelve, but this kid looked way younger. Either he is a half-pint, or he's really eleven and I'm growing up too quickly for my own good.

It had been on my mind all night. I thought about txting him when I got in but knew it would spook him to know he'd been spotted. Had this feeling it would make him clam up. Dad's approach was far better. Direct questioning never fails. Even if he's lying to me, I'll be able to see it in his eyes.

I get to the park at half-five and warm up, flex. Get through all the preliminary business so that I'll be ready for him. Six passes and no sign of Casey. Six-fifteen, nothing. Six-thirty, footsteps, but only the park-keeper checking to see that I'm not making mischief (he was the one who caught me breaking out of Harriers last summer). Because it's early and I never need it, I've left my phone charging in
my room, the battery having been worked to its last nerve.

Casey plans each session in advance so I pretty much know what I have to do. I set myself exercises based on whatever he's been threatening the day before. Today it's starting block technique into the first fifty metres, and I get on with it in the hope that he'll turn up sometime soon.

‘Stop slacking, V-pen. Don't think you can put in only fifty per cent just because I'm not here to check up on you, Mr V-pen.'

He's caught me making a balls-up in the starting block. Dammit. I look at my watch, six fifty-five.

‘What's with the time-keeping, fruitcake? Thought this was meant to be a full-time gig.'

‘Enough of the cheek, young Turk. Get back on those blocks and let me see what you think's the correct starting position. Then we'll compare notes.'

When he's in this mood there's no messing with him. He throws down his trackie jacket, red and white, and we get down to business. I suppose that's why I hired him the first place, because I wanted some seriousness. All this other foolishness is an added extra.

I only get the chance to quiz him once training's over. We're walking up the path towards the car park. Park-keeper hasn't cleaned up the dog shit from yesterday so every step smells foul. He's in an awful good mood about something, telling me some story about a notorious Surrey ref who's as blind as a bat and giving examples of his various fuck-ups. We're both holding our noses and laughing, and he pats me on the shoulder as we walk. Only once, only lightly, but a pat nonetheless. If I wasn't so secure I'd be screaming for Childline about now.

‘You never did tell me why you were late,' I go, as he's getting into his car, glad for some distance. ‘If I was fifty-five minutes late for training, like you were, you'd bust my fucking balls.'

‘I hear that, V-pen, sir, and I sincerely apologise. I'll fix my alarm clock and promise it won't happen again.'

‘This training thing works both ways, Casey. Neither of us can afford to be late.'

He laughs at that.

‘Shouldn't I be the one telling you that?'

‘Not really, since I'm the talent and you're the help.'

Spoken like my father's son. He's a bastard about status, something to do with him being a Tamil and never having had any to begin with.

‘Being disrepectful, V-pen, will only get you into trouble with your maker. Did your mother tell you never to mock your elders?'

‘She's too busy tending to the sick. So where were you? Late night, was it?'

‘Not at all. I went to my meeting and was in bed at eleven. I've been an early bird all week. Not that it's any of your business. Sir.'

A salute and a sneer.

Casey is member of the Christian Fellowship via Catholicism. Didn't think the nuns at St Mary's clapped enough. There's a church near the Common that takes him. You can find him there speaking in tongues most weekends.

‘Must have been some meeting. You've got bags under your eyes, Casey. You should take a leaf out of my book. Went to see Britney the other night, got in at one, and still made it here for six. Fresh as a daisy.'

His eyes widen a millimetre of a millimetre, but that's just enough for me.

‘Britney Spears, eh? And how was that?'

‘An education, Casey. You should have been there. I saw all sorts.'

30

Me and Moon don't have Saturday jobs. ‘We're professional spend-whores,' she goes, each time we flash our plastic at the cashpoint or checkout. Practising for the day when we turn eighteen and become eligible for major credit problems.

Mum doesn't want anything to get in the way of my training, and
thinks Saturdays should be my day off. Makes sure Dad sends me all the money I need. Moon, like her sister, is a lazy princess who's born to shop and very little else. It's inevitable that we would bump into each other between the mall and the high street eventually.

This is our moment, in the queue at Starbucks. Only the two of us. Jase is at Tesco, Kelly with the traders on the market, and Pearson caddying golf clubs up on the Downs. There are no back-ups or pretending to have prior appointments. We're thrust together, end of.

‘I didn't plan it. It just happened with Pearson,' is the first thing that comes out of her mouth, literally the moment we spot each other, and neither of us have our lattes yet. We've both paid our money and are standing at the counter like idiots, thinking of something to say. These Starbucks people are getting slower. If I actually knew them I'd swear that it was deliberate. (But they're foreign, so it's not.)

She looks fantastic. Jeans that cling to her arse, pink ugg boots, cropped red hoodie, gold hoops bigger than Kelly's. Really working a look. I miss hanging out with a fashion plate. A girl like that always makes her boy look equally great by association, a notion that's never been completely lost on me.

The only warmth coming from my body is from the latte I'm now holding. Realise that the pair of us are holding mugs to drink in, out of habit, rather than take-out cups. We find a table, and get it over with. It's the only sensible thing to do.

‘I hear your eyes met in a crowded chemistry lab. Were there fireworks?'

‘He came to apologise, actually. He's really sorry about all that business . . .'

‘Ah, yes. He's so sorry about hanging out with the Paki bashers that he still hasn't apologised personally to the Paki in question.'

Two Pakis in one sentence makes her flinch. Me too, if I'm honest. I'm not part of the radical reclamation camp. I know it's good enough for the niggas, but . . .

‘He really wants to make it up with you and Jason. Really, he feels dreadful about it.'

‘Did you just say dreadful? What is he doing to you? You've never said dreadful in your life.'

‘Piss off.'

‘What, family pearls under that hoodie of yours?'

‘You should give him a chance, VP, he's really not as bad as you think.'

‘Once a tosser, always a tosser. You've been together for what, a month? And not a peep from your noble boy. Just lots of diving into corridors whenever he sees us.'

‘Like I said, he does feel bad . . . but he's kinda pissed at you too. After I told him about you snooping.'

Moon found me flicking through her phone on the bus after the Challenge outing to Godalming. I was properly caught out. Didn't think quickly enough. I should've said I was looking for Jase's new mobile number, that I'd programmed the digits the wrong way round. But everything's easier with hindsight. She went fucking ballistic, really fucking bunny boiler, because one thing Moon hates is anyone going through her stuff, even me. Been stung too often by her crazy parents being secretively investigative in the name of welfare. I only have myself to blame. This is the first time we've spoken since.

‘How else was I supposed to find out? I knew something was up. You'd been acting funny all day,' I go. ‘You were hardly going to tell me otherwise.'

I may be thinking other things, but as far as she's concerned, I'm admitting nothing.

‘I was working up to telling you VP, OK? It's just been a difficult situation . . . I was probably going to do it that afternoon, if you hadn't spoiled it.'

‘Snogging a boring bastard who's tried to kick your mates to shit. Twice. Can see how that could prove difficult.'

I don't mention my theory about her being in love with him, in case she tells me it's true. Prefer to think I'm being stupid, making up shit to make myself feel worse.

She can't shut up.

‘I like how I look when I'm with him. I look like I matter. I'm no longer this girl who sits up in her room and obsesses too much. I stop thinking about running the world and how I'm going to be in twenty years' time. I hang off his shoulder like some trophy, and I see myself as I am right now, and I like it. I like how I can live in the moment.'

‘We live in the moment, don't we? You and me?'

‘Not in the same way. We make out we're spontaneous, but we're just projecting what we want to be. With Daniel, I just live it. There is no projecting.'

‘Fucking load of bo-lax, you're on about. You talk shite sometimes.'

A member of staff comes over and asks us to keep our voices down. A couple of the parents on the sofas aren't taking too kindly to our language. They have the timid eyes and weak pallor of secondary school teachers or social workers, but none that we know. Their rugrats are all under three, dribbling gob everywhere, and practically bald. The Starbucks skivvy is Polish or something, so she has to repeat herself about five times before we understand what she's saying. We nod all apologetically when we finally get it, and then, when she's out of sight, back to her milk frother, we give the offending parents the fuck-you finger and an evil eye. Your filthy rugrats look a greater threat than us – hygienically speaking. Like, where's the fire?

Now we're laughing, the pair of us, like it's old times. But it only lasts a minute. Short and deliciously sweet, like the Frappuccinos they make here (the best!). There's still a connection between us.

‘How's life with her?' she asks, ruining it. ‘I hear the pair of you are like love's young dream.'

Patronising, even if she is three months older. She leans forward, elbow on table, left hand cradling chin, looking like she's interested, even though her tone has become as cold as ice again. Makes Kelly sound like scum. If I come any closer she'll whip her hand out and give me a slap. It's her classic defensive position; I've seen her in action, know all the moves, even the hidden ones. I'd hug her in a second if she let me.

‘It's kushty,' I tell her, even though it doesn't always feel that way. ‘Kel's safe. We went to see Britney a few days ago.'

‘So I hear. I'm sure you looked like a real couple.'

Moon's been hearing a lot of things. This isn't getting us anywhere. Sarcasm can only outdo sarcasm for so long. We used to compete in our rooms, cussing cast-offs that could last hours if our minds were up to it; but today neither of us has top trump. Brains lazy from too much lovin'. Emotional holes filled, momentarily content. We leave the lattes and piss off.

31

Mum goes on a proper date, the first follow-through from the speed-dating evening. His name is Mike and he's a solicitor-barrister-type person. Has his own business in Esher and a staff of ten. I'm more interested in seeing a picture, and clocking how old he is, but have to make do with the information Mum gives me. She's being very limited on this front. There's no time after work to see her mate at the beauty counter so she does everything herself, and makes a pretty good job of it. She's lost a load since joining WeightWatchers and doesn't look bad at all. This was after the summer when she saw our snaps from Portugal and had a fit over the size of her thighs. She's wearing trousers this time, black and flarey, with one of those floaty tops that all the makeover women wear on TV, very bright pink, so Mike will have to wear his sunglasses.

I put a note in her make-up bag just in case there's any first-night wobbles. It says ‘Don't Worry. You Look Fantastic! XXX'

She meets him at the new Italian that's opened opposite the library, and leaves just before seven-thirty, giving me an evening of fun. Kel is having tea round her nan's so no action there. Have to make do with Jason's company. Preferable to Kel, what with the mood she's in (I had to let her in on the Starbucks business).

I let Jase smoke a large one out of the back window, whilst I burn
the new 50 track from one of those illegal sites, and try and get trapped on a porn cycle. Unfortunately Mum's been fiddling more than she should have done and has activated all the AOL child-locks. This is what happens when your parents start to get too computer literate. Means the only Vs we are getting to see on the computer screen tonight are violins or violas.

Dad calls around ten. See it's him because we have caller ID. Can't face exchanges with him and Moon in the same day. It's too much to ask. Get Jase to answer, shouting down the phone like a madman, saying that the house is on fire. He's stoned, and throws himself into it. Lives the part. Bellows like smoke's choking his every last breath.

We put the phone on speaker. Can hear Dad's panic until he realises it's a wind-up. ‘Hello? Is everything all right? Hello? Veerapen, why are you shouting like that? Let me speak to your mum right away.' He only hangs up when he hears the laughing.

We're on the floor, cackling like idiots. Wetting ourselves. Clinging to the walls because our sides are splitting. Lasts a good fifteen minutes. He doesn't call back.