Niven Govinden - Graffiti My Soul

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.’

‘So even you are calling him suspicious now,’ said Moon, suddenly suspicious herself. ‘’Cos if that’s the case, I don’t know what we’re doing here.’

‘I mean, suspicious ’cos that’s what Mum thinks, in spite of all the good intentions. Casey ain’t guilty of nothing. I’d trust him with my life, you guys.’

‘That’s going a bit far, isn’t it?’ goes Jase, the most nervous I’d seen him looking in a long time.

‘Not really,’ I said, ‘’cos it’s true. Just spend an hour or so with him, alcohol or not. You’ll see.’

We’re all on our feet and gravitate towards each other, until we’re standing in a line facing the door to greet the reception party; like a trio of waiting diplomats from Planet I’LL KICK UR ASS.

When Mum and Casey re-enter the room, she already has her coat on. Guest arrived, time to piss off. She pushes him towards us like we’re playing Tag Team.

I’ve been waiting so long my mouth shoots off ahead of itself.

‘Casey! Happy Birthday! I know technically it isn’t your birthday, because the actual day is on Tuesday, but Happy Birthday! D’you like it? Do you? Really, we should have had one of those Happy Birthday songs to play on your entrance, like maybe that Stevie Wonder one, ’cos it’s classic and not too cheesy, though it would have most likely been the Fiddy Cent one, where it just goes on about it being your birthday and everything, but we didn’t get it together in time.’

Everyone looked at me as if I were a mad person, not getting that this is how me and Casey talk — all the time.

Casey took in the table, the balloons, the banners, Bedingfield on loop, and his house-guests, and his eyes were moist.

‘It looks like you’ve done a pretty cracking job to me, young Turk. It’s a blessing, truly it is.’

Over his shoulder I could see the younger guests rolling their eyes and making faces.

He shakes everyone’s hand, including mine, distantly and self-consciously. Even before he’s got through the procession, all ‘Nice to see you again, Miss Moon Jones’ and ‘Ah, yes! Jason, SIR, the rock n roll rebel!’, Mum’s vanished; partly to do with the countdown to Mike, and partly to do with a major decrease in patience. On her days off I think she takes exception to wheeling the patience out when she really doesn’t have to.

Casey’s been to the gym or somewhere whilst we’ve been balloon-blowing and party-planning. Scrubbed up a treat. Hair still damp, and curly and tight, still too short for a full comb, but forced into something resembling a side parting, a definite shift to the left in any case, clean-shaved, skin rosy and scrubbed. Out of the tracksuit and into cargo pants and a white polo shirt. I’d never seen him look smarter.

First impressions: if you saw Casey looking like that in the street, you’d think manager, David Lloyd Centre, or maybe Head Lifeguard if he was ten years younger. But I’m not malicious in my appraisal, the way Moon and Jase are. I’m just absorbing their judgements so that Casey doesn’t have to. I’m a big brown sponge who mops up the bad energy so that you can only see the good. If I were a wire, I’d be Earth. Ask anyone.

He pulls a bag from one of the lower, more voluminous of the cargo-pant pockets.

‘I stopped at HMV on the way up. Thought you’d want something a little more feel-good than my usual selection.’

He handed the bag to a dumbstruck Jason.

‘Pop-Dance Hits? You think we like Pop-Dance Hits?’

‘Also, don’t get too excited. I’ve got you some beers. Just some light beers, ’cos I don’t want to get into any strife with your folks. Just, seeing how you’ve gone to so much trouble for me, the least I can do is give you a little something in return.’

The scorn plastered across Jase’s face immediately vanished on mention of the B-word.

‘Mate, why didn’t you say so sooner? Go get them from wherever they’re hiding. A couple of those, and I’ll be happy with your Pop-Dance anything.’

By the time CD 1 has finished and CD 2 begins to creak into motion, all party activity is at its peak. Moon hasn’t been eating, so the 0.25 % of alcohol in her system is determining her every action; still straight-edge, but no longer horizontal, a degree or two above terra firma. Turfing Casey from his favoured spot, she’s dancing on the sofa to an audience of three. It’s some cheesy mix of ‘Crazy In Love’, which she’s claimed to have always hated, in spite of the tribute to Beyonce that now twists and shakes before us. Jase, after looking delighted, then uncomfortable, then bored, disappears to the loo for a smoke. Casey looks bemused, with thoughts like ‘Do people really dance like that?’ crossing and criss-crossing his face as he struggles to follow the variety of moves.

Which leaves a two-horse race. In normal circumstances, i.e. if we were in my bedroom or hers, I’d be up there joining her, bus’ing my head up, throwing my set around like Jay Z. I’m not as keen to do that in front of Casey. Also, I haven’t had my 0.25 % of alcohol to sozzle my inhibitions.

‘It’s a party, guys. Come on! Get up here!’

We stay grounded and wait for the show to end, which is about ten minutes later when Moon throws up due to motion sickness (the spins were crazy, bra), or the cupcakes, or the 0.25, or maybe just a combo.

I’m not smug. I just know that all straight-edgers shouldn’t get so carefree with their drink. It only leads to trouble.

Casey takes it all in his stride, making her a slice of toast and giving her weak, sweet tea, but Pop-Dance Party does lose its earlier euphoria and becomes more subdued after that. We sit in our circle like a bunch of old women and pass the sausage rolls.

‘Did you not have any mates you wanted to ask down?’ goes Moon, when she gets her voice back. ‘A crowd is always good for a party.’

‘A couple of my muckers from the church I go to said they’d try to make it, but y’know, sudden commitments and all that. I’m quite happy with the crowd I got here, to be honest. I think we’re happening enough without the addition of more cautious influences to cramp our style.’

‘If you say so,’ goes Jase.

The buzz from the door forces everyone to check themselves; that maybe Casey had invited friends who’d be mad and funny and show us that he wasn’t all loner and grudge.

It was a pizza boy. Brendan had sent his apologies with a twenty-inch American Hot with extra mushrooms.

‘I didn’t even know we’d invited Brendan,’ said Casey, dumfounded. ‘Where did that come from?’

‘I just thought you might appreciate it, now the dust has settled. Should have known he couldn’t be bothered to make the effort.’