Niven Govinden - Graffiti My Soul

Jesus. This was only s’posed to be a random night out, no aggro. I’ve only said about five words and I’m a fucking mess.

The shandy in my hands is now tepid and gag-inducing, but I force the last of it down. Martyrdom is what I do best, ha ha. I go to Keith for a top-up. All things considered, he’s probably my best friend in this place right now.

There’s a grubby little Goth kid working the bar too, but I wait for Keith to clear his side of the queue before I place my kiddie sippy cup back on the counter.

‘You’re back for more? Boy, you can put it away, Veerapen!’

‘Yeah, I’m a regular big drinker. I’m like the guys back home,’ I go, ‘where they sit under their coconut trees drinking rum.’

I’ve got no idea what Sri Lanka is like, but presume they have coconut trees like they have in Mauritius. Same colour skin, same lifestyle I reckon. This is closest I’ve got to breaking my self-induced racial autism. Normally I can’t even look these people in the face.

‘You want something stronger than shandy?’

He’s laughing now, at my brazen Tamil-ness. Also, the Goth kid has disappeared somewhere now that the queue has been dealt with, leaving us to talk freely.

‘Whatever you can give me, my man. Load me up.’

‘That kind of night? It looks like you’re having fun over there, now your friends have turned up.’

‘Don’t believe everything you see, Keith. I’m hating every minute.’

He smiles the way people do when they think that they know everything: teachers, mothers, disgraced trainers with persecution complexes.

‘What I like to do, when I’m having trouble with a girl, is to rise above it. I’m not saying that I do rise above it, just that I want it to look that way. I act like I don’t give a damn. Make out I’m busy, really busy, that I’ve got all kinds of things on my mind that have nothing to do with her.’

‘Who says I’m having trouble with a girl? I’ve just come for a drink.’

‘Man, grant me some intelligence. I got eyes.’

‘I’m only here for the drink.’

‘I’ve been looking at your face, and how it changed the minute that girl came in. You were all teeth smiling, and then your brow knotted. Still smiling, but brow knotted. Classic sign of holding something in. It’s gotta be about the girl, right? I can’t see anyone else in that group making you feel that way.’

‘Yeah. Course it’s a girl. I’m not stressing out over a goat, am I?’

Heart sat firmly in my throat, hoping that if he’s this good, he won’t strip back the layers and find what I was thinking about Jason minutes before that. How much more can a thick old illegal Sri Lankan be capable of picking up?

‘What d’you think I should do?’

I have to ask. There’s no one else here, and I need something. If this was Casey I was talking to, I’d make him take me down to his church, see if the Fellowship brothers have the answer; but even though I’ve only known Keith for about five seconds, I know that I can talk to him about girls the way I never can with Casey. He’s too busy watching his back to think that I might need to talk about les bitches and the messed-up stuff that comes with them. I’m not latching onto anyone. Keith is here, and just looks like he wants to help.

He has customers, three kids the year below me who want Supersizes and keep changing their mind between Coke and Tango, and then diet over full-fat. Two girls and a guy, meaning that they’re all giggles and no focus. Getting a drink, changing your shoes, going for a slash, everything’s a fucking holiday for these retards. I have to butt in and tell them to speed it up before I start hitting them. They shut the fuck up after that.

Between the kids, and then the beer tap, presumably for yours truly, Keith is kept busy whilst he thinks over his answer. The beer tap is one of those slow runners, it’s not like the taps you get on sinks. Obviously I don’t spend my time hanging out in pubs, so I’ve never seen how beer taps actually give. If you’re desperate for a kiddie cup, you need to place your order an hour beforehand. It’s millilitre by millilitre, something like the way his thoughts are beginning to ferment and distil: drip drop, drip drop. It’s only when the cup is filled that I get anything out of him.

‘Take a leaf out of the Jamaicans’ book, man. Relax. Take it easy.’

‘I ain’t no Yardie. I don’t smoke weed, and I don’t drink rum.’

‘I’m not talking about that, man. Just a little island mentality. Stop and breathe a moment. Don’t get all hot-headed around the girl and start acting like a fool.’

‘Why not, Keith? It sounds like the best idea to me.’

‘Because that’s what she wants!’

And it was like someone had switched the light on all of a sudden. Moon, out of the shadows and illuminated, like under proper harsh fluorescent strip lighting, not the rosy-tinted bollocks I’d been using all this time in my head. Sri Lankans speaking sense, revealing the mysteries of the world like a bunch of fucking yogis. If I wasn’t so sober, I wouldn’t have believed it… or been dazzled by the way the new light was shinning on Moon and her not-so-flawless face.

‘It’s what she wants, man. You’re making trouble for yourself. And it just does the opposite of your true intentions, all the shouting, the pushing, rabble-rousing, makes her think that she’s right. Not you. Her.’

‘Are you a misogynist or something? Like, do you actually like women? ’Cos the way you’re talking sounds you’re the one with the chip on your shoulder, not me.’

‘I’ve been married to my wife for seven years, and I’m very happy, thank you. This isn’t about hating women. It’s about understanding their tricks.’

‘So you think that I’m right, then? Not her? How do you come to that conclusion? You don’t even know me.’

A sip of strong beer plus wound up tension equals dark-skinned contempt. I can’t help it.

Keith is too busy wringing out his beer towels to notice. He looks up and gets the stumpy brown thumbs out. Gives me the Fonz.

‘Because we’re brothers, man. That’s how I know. Brothers of the Indian Ocean, innit? Us guys are always in the right, no matter what other people think.’

‘What makes you so sure of the Indian Ocean connection? I could be from anywhere.’

‘Not with those genes, man. You can travel halfway round the world. You could be in some Penthouse in New York in ten years’ time, but you can’t escape your genes.’

This is less to do with smart talk, his intuition, I think, and more down to Jason and his slack gob. Become a friend to Jason and he’ll tell you anything.

I go for a piss and take my sorry ass, now slightly calmed by the voice of my people, and my new Supersized sippy cup back to the banquette, moving closer to the end lanes so I get a taste of the action. If I’m going to act aloof and unaffected, I may as well do it from a position where I can hear exactly what’s going on.

Moon isn’t playing. She stands around the score-zone acting cheerleader.

‘SEVEN YEAH!… THREE YEAH… STRIKE YEAH!’

She could be reading a magazine, the amount of interest she’s showing.

That’s why they needed Jason. Pearson wasn’t joking about needing to make up numbers. The four of them are clustered around the foot of their lane, virtually breathing down the neck of whoever’s up. Anyone who manages to ignore that and bowl in a straight line is a bloody miracle-worker.

This is why Pearson will never become a sportsman of any note, not because he’s fucking useless, but because he has no respect for the rules of play. There are times when it’s more important than ability. It’s why I have to swallow my temper down if I don’t win a race the way I should’ve, ’cos one day, when I’ll really need it, some doddery old track official will remember my humility and vote in favour of the Tamil Jew. When it’s down to a photo finish, this shit counts. It’s something Pearson will never learn, because in his head he has all the arrogance in the world to carry him through.