Niven Govinden - Graffiti My Soul

‘I’ve already told you, I’m not setting foot anywhere near that place.’

‘Suit yourself, young sir, but I know everyone would love to meet you.’

What I experience is the battle of extremes, a very real panic over the prospect of not getting into that flat, versus a flush of pride that he wants the church goons to meet me. You wouldn’t make an offer like that unless you really meant it.

I sweat out a third anxiety: the possibility that I have a more permanent place in Casey’s family-free family.

‘There’s got to be some time when we can hook up later, kick back. I could come round after your café thingy, if you like. Watch Match of the Day .’

‘The only time I’ve got is at this party, Mr Prendrapen. What a whirlwind social life! Check me out!’

‘But I…’

‘What’s the big deal with you wanting to come by my place, kiddo? Anyone would think you were desperate to get into that dump.’

It wasn’t the muted laughter in the background that told me he was making a big show for his church goons, more to do with him calling me kiddo all the time, like he was some big carefree guy who never worried about anything.

I’m at a loss. I have no idea what to do, short of coming clean and dropping Jason in it.

‘A church rave sounds great. I’ll see you there.’

Casey lives in a big fat circle. He starts and ends with the crucifix. Everything else is gaseous, insubstantial. Inside the circle he’s as safe as anything, paranoia banished and fears displaced. He becomes the person he always wanted to be, if you push aside the tracks and the medals: impenetrable, an example , so long as he stays in the circle.

His sense of humour is reborn. It’s like I’m witnessing the fucking resurrection, God pardon my language and blatant blaspheming.

The church hall rave sounded like it was going to be stuffed with a busload of spastics, but they turn out to be a really racy lot. Women outnumber men by 3:1. Single women outnumber men by 2:1. No one dresses like Lil’ Kim or anything, but there are calves on display, and cleavage, drop earrings and plenty of big hair. I ask Casey if they are like this because of the party, but he tells me that they look like this pretty much all the time.

The men give me discreet cups of punch and tell me to keep it under my hat. About five of them do it, so I’m near pissed within an hour. The women take me outside whenever it gets too stuffy and slip me contraband cigarettes. Everyone asks me whether I have a girlfriend.

Inside the circle, Casey is the bloody funniest person to have ever walked the streets of North East Surrey. The way the men and women laugh at him, you’d think he was channelling one of the old boys like Tommy Cooper or Eric Morecambe. Put the exact same act in a different kind of church and it would have been like a one-man séance.

I call the numbers for the raffle. I dance with the married ladies to S Club. I am the perfect guest of the guest of honour.

I am seduced by the wisdom of the circle. I share their joy-without-agenda, putting aside the J-word, and the crosses that decorate every available wall space. I forget I am here with an agenda of my own. I forget the anxiety that filled me as I ran to the hall. Too many hugs from smiling Christian strangers. I see the fellowship. Makes me wonder what the hell I was worrying about.

It’s a different story when the punch runs out. My buzz, alcoholic and spiritual, evaporates, and I remember the reason why I’m here: to create my own lull, a Jew — Tamil special, my own homegrown illusion of security. It’s a case of flattering my bollocks off — the women, some of the men, Casey. Anyone within my line of vision gets it. If you were looking in, you’d think I was the most polite and charming young man in the world. That the future would be safe if all the young people were as centred and loving as me. They wouldn’t believe that I could be the King of the Switcheroo, leaving the party early and breaking into Casey’s flat and pulling the pictures from the bed.

The only person in that room who’d believe it would be Casey, and he was all for acting upon his beliefs. He catches me as I’m trashing the place in a bid to make it look authentic. He only looks at the first picture in my hand. He doesn’t wait to hear about the rest.

Three things.

He thinks of manners before himself. Casey pops a note through the door, getting his arse out of bed extra early, as I find it on the mat before I leave the house for training. I wasn’t expecting him to be there, but I was getting ready anyway. I can’t stop training just because I think he’s gonna be a no-show. Who knows what’s gonna happen to me? I may have to go through twenty more trainers before I reach Olympic level. The note tells me to go back to Harriers. The C scrawled at the bottom is so wispy and random, it’s like the note isn’t really signed at all, the C itself looking like a scribble someone does to check whether there’s any ink left in the Biro. Left-handed, careless business. Block lettering, brown envelope. It could have been a Paki Go Home note if I hadn’t read it properly, or if we were in the 1980s.

In the fold of the letter is the 9-carat St Christopher I’d spent most of my cash on. I wasn’t trying to be sentimental when I gave him that gift, more that it was the most appropriate thing I could think of. If it forced him to think about me each time he wore it, that would be his lookout, not mine.

Now it sits in my hand uselessly. I’m not feeling anything. Just static. There’s no point in going to the flat and pleading for anything, as I know what I’ll find there: a clothes rail cleared of tracksuits, Bedingfield CD packed up and away. He didn’t say much when he found me, but what he had said sounded final. The look on his face only seemed to back that up. Softness over anger, but still incredibly resolute. I knew when I left the flat that there was no reverse decision. When it comes to disqualification, all decisions are final. I’ve been trying to run all my life, but I’m never going to run the way Casey does. I’m not scared enough.

It takes Jason a couple of days to say it, but he manages it eventually. No longer feeling so fucking clever. That only three of the five pictures I gave him were the ones he originally left under the bed. Either a magic trick or something we don’t want to voice an explanation for. When Casey started shouting, I thought it was because he was shocked at the pictures, I didn’t think about which pictures.

I move on because I have to. Driving yourself mad because you’re missing your mentor is only going to fuck with your head. Trus’ me, I’ve been there.

I’m a bright boy. Pearson’s bullshit keeps me off the streets a little. Yid graffiti follows me about the school. Hey, replaced with Shalom. Simple things.

Simple doesn’t bother me. Simple is the easiest thing to handle, but I keep myself to myself only ’cos I don’t want to waste my energy, or pull a muscle. I train with Brendan. I go to school. I come home. Strict routine. Mum twigs after about three days. She isn’t stupid.

‘Are you on drugs? Is that the problem?’

Then again.

Mum wants to know everything all of a sudden. Doesn’t like that I’m always in heavy fight mode on X Box or scrubbing myself in the shower. Outside of training and school, I haven’t left the house for nearly a week. Won’t even go with her to Tesco.

‘Are you being bullied?’

‘No!’

‘Then what’s the matter? I don’t understand. You shouldn’t be indoors all the time like this.’