Niven Govinden - Graffiti My Soul

You don’t get two minutes to yourself when you’ve won a race. Because the organisation was cack-handed, people are everywhere once I’ve cleaned the 400, all vying to give me a pat on the back. All aside from my trainer, who’s been told to keep well away. I give him the results by text. Today, however, this includes a pat on the back from the Harriers, which is the best of all, because you can see it’s choking them.

‘Congratulations, lad. Those were excellent runs, really excellent,’ goes Brendan Dean, the slug who got me thrown out of Harriers in the first place. He always calls me lad because he can never pronounce my name. He runs the Harriers deal across Surrey and Kent, rarely seen but often heard. Very creepy guy, like the Childcatcher, only uglier. And he has the driest skin in the world. When I shake his hand I literally feel a layer of skin coming away. Makes Freddie Kruger look moisturised.

‘You are doing magnificently this season. Our guys will have to watch out for you in the finals!’

‘They’ll have to watch the smoke from my trainers as I leave them behind.’

I was expecting him to say something else entirely, because I know he’s been keeping a close eye on my progress since I left, but the unexpected courtesy doesn’t throw me. I’m not bothered about being a gracious winner.

‘And you’re still training alone, I hear?’

‘Yep. Nothing anyone can teach me. I’m a natural.’

‘Well …’ he claps his hands together and you can see about a pound of skin flakes falling to the floor.

I’m glugging my energy drink and almost throw it back up.

‘… I know we’ve had some differences, but if you’d like to return to the centre …’

‘Piss off.’

‘You’d be more than welcome. Although I can see your manners are as elusive as ever. Goodbye.’

Two reasons for ending the conversation: Casey, whom no one over the age of fifteen knows about, and I see Mum coming over (ref: reason number one).

‘What did he want?’

She thrusts a KitKat in my hand and throws daggers at Brendan’s under-moisturised back. She’s about as keen on him as I am.

‘Nothing. Just wanted to know my secrets.’

‘I hope you kept them to yourself! Bloody hypocrite. If he was that interested in the first place, he should have made an exception and kept you on. Those stupid rules about age restriction. You’re only fifteen, for Christ’s sake.’

Her eyes start popping out, the way they do when she’s on a roll. She only shuts up when I give her three bars of the KitKat.

Moon says hi and then disappears. She’s being elusive. I haven’t seen her since she showed me the picture yesterday. She’s with her bitch sister, who hates me; I could hear her booing as I passed her in the 400. They’re off to see Incubus at Wembley and now things are wrapped up, are making their haste to leave known.

‘Congratulations, great run,’ spits the bitch sister.

She’s standing at least five feet away, as if coming anywhere near me is cutting into her time with precious Incubus. Mum is right next to me, so I’m forced to acknowledge the bitch sister as Gwyn Jones. If she wasn’t, I probably would have ripped into her saggy Welsh arse. Great tits, though. Make Moon’s look like lemon slices.

The Jones girls are local landmarks. Everyone knows them, even if you don’t go to our school. Moon has the looks, Gwyn has the tits. Both have the milk white skin, which, in Gwyn’s case, does her plenty of favours. Without that complexion she’d look like Quasimodo. Although Jason is interested in Moon, like we all are, he’s always saying how he’d take Gwyn’s tits anytime. Says they’re wank tits.

Moon waves from Gwyn’s car and says she’ll call me. She throws daggers at Kelly Button, who’s been shivering in her tiny skirt, and making eyes at me for the past hour. Like I don’t know what she wants.

The KFC in the car tastes like heaven. It’s a rarity. Mum usually insists on the house being a fast-food-free zone, claiming that there are more chemicals in those things than there are in an E.

‘When you’re out with your friends, there’s nothing I can do about it. But when you’re at home, I’m not giving you any of that junk.’

On the days before a race I stick to the pasta, chicken, fruit. I’m not Lynford yet, but I am taking it as seriously as I can.

Mum hadn’t been to one of my races for a while. Too busy working. Has to take my word about how good I am. Gets verification whenever she catches my mug in the papers. Normally after a race we’d have a laugh about things, take the piss out of the other runners, especially the ones who dribble, or start praying before the whistle. Today she’s seriously evangelical, going on about how this could really open doors for me if I stick at it, and how we really need to find a trainer to give me the one-on-one attention I’m entitled to.

My mobile goes. It’s Casey. I flick it off straightaway.

‘Who was that?’ she asks.

‘Wrong number,’ I say.

She’s not listening, though, still too het-up about my chances.

‘These bloody Harriers are taking the piss if they can’t see what’s in front of their noses. You were the best thing to ever happen to that centre, and they just let you walk away. I’m going to have it out with Brendan if he doesn’t set you up with a trainer. I’ll take it all the way to the top, if I have to.’

I drop the drumstick, and start telling her how I’m happier training on my own. Inwardly I’m shitting it, because I know that this is the moment when I should tell her about Casey, but luckily it starts raining as we turn into Broadhurst. Chucking it down. Rain hitting the windscreen so fast and so thick you can’t see shit.

Mum drives around Surrey most of the day because of work, but isn’t the most confident at the wheel. Her trick is to over-compensate a lack of bottle with speed. Many a time we’ve come within inches of a parked car, a wall, or various cyclists. The only time she takes it to snail trail is when the elements hit, like they are now. She’s stopped going on about my running, and jumps off the gas, so we’re rolling at about 10 mph. The wipers are flapping across the screen at max but doing fuck all.

‘Shit,’ she goes.

She literally only ever swears in the car.

‘Relax, we’re on Broadhurst. We’ll be home in a couple of minutes.’

In her mind it’s half a mile of potential hazards.

Jason is on the street getting soaked. Must have finished a shift at Tesco. Looks like he’s spent his wages there too. Carrying more bags than Pauline Fowler.

Mum’s going so slowly she doesn’t even have to stop for Jase. I flip open the door and he throws the bags in, followed by himself.

‘Hello.’

‘Hello.’

‘Hello, Mrs Prendrapen.’

‘Don’t be so formal, Jason. Vivienne, remember?’

‘OK. Hello, Vivienne, lovely to see you.’

He drops it so smoothly, it’s enough to make Mum blush. He’s a right charmer, is Jase.

‘Have some chicken,’ I tell him. ‘It’s the shizzle.’

‘Fo’ shizzle, m’nizzle,’ he goes, which makes me break out into giggles like some girl.

‘Can you speak proper English whilst you’re in the car?’ says Mum, smiling, but with eyebrows raised. ‘I might not be able to make out every word, but I know swearing when I hear it.’

There’s enough time to exchange pleasantries in the minute it takes to reach his house. I have a quick glance at the bags as he’s shaking the rain out of his brittle skinhead turning to fuzz and onto Mum’s back seat. Three of them are filled with ready-meal crap; the others are crammed with boxes of Matchmakers. His mum, as well as being an agoraphobic, is a bulimic, also brought on by the hit and run. This would be funny if you didn’t know her, and hadn’t heard about how she feeds almost solely on Matchmakers (and when they’re in season, Easter eggs). But we know Jason, so it isn’t a laughing matter. His dad ended up leaving because of it — but he still sees him, so at least he doesn’t hate his as much as I do mine. Mum knows the situation inside out, and has tried to help her several times, but Billie — Jase’s mum — won’t listen to anyone. Each visit is a failure.