Niven Govinden - Graffiti My Soul

That makes it sound more glamorous than it actually was. We met in an out-of-the-way Starbucks in Walton, where we both begged each other like a pair of faggots. His begging was more hysterical and outdid mine. He’s still the best trainer in the county. No one can touch him. You can’t accuse me of not giving anyone a second chance.

Also, I know he’s not interested in me. I did my homework. Twelve-year-olds are more his thing. I could whop it in his face and he wouldn’t so much as flinch.

Obviously I didn’t tell Mum about Casey, because the mere mention of his name would give her a stroke on the spot. The charges had been dropped, but the alleged incident at the Harriers had been splashed across all the local papers, and had even made an edition of London Tonight . Surrey’s first paedo scandal. Past achievements aside, it made him our newest celebrity.

‘Gimmie a break,’ I say, when I’m near to passing out, after a fresh round of sprint hurdles, and he’s getting all Saddam with the stopwatch.

‘It was only three Benson, for fuck’s sake. It’s not like I was smoking crack or anything.’

We have to train on the public track in the park, because the Harriers won’t let us anywhere near their precious facilities. Yes, there are two tracks in the same town. Welcome to Surrey, where you get double everything on a plate. At this time in the morning, six on the dot, it’s perfect. The place becomes my own personal training space. I don’t get psyched out, having to look at the other kids who may be better than I am. Out here, like this morning when there’s only one man and his dog, and Mr Paedo PE, I’m all calm and focus.

Rep hurdles are a bastard to do. We call them hurdles, but they’re mini-hurdles, more like steps. You could replace them with tyres or beer cans if you wanted to, the principle’s the same. Any old object to jump over. Casey is being a tosser with the reps. Won’t listen when I say I can’t do them. I jump twenty of the steps, twenty seconds’ rest, then jump another twenty, then another rest, then forty, and a rest of ten. I’ve done three of these circuits and feel worn out.

Casey doesn’t look worried, or bothered. He’s standing inside track, stopwatch dangling onto his chest like some medallion man, and idly glancing at the Sun ’s back pages.

‘No slacking, V-pen!’ he shouts every so often with a quick glance up.

This is a harder job for him than it looks, considering how quick the reps are. If I were one of those twelve-year-olds he liked so much, I’d probably fall for it. As it is, the way his eyes flick back and forth indicates that, for this morning at least, he feels as unfocused as me. Someone of Casey’s calibre doesn’t do laid-back, unless there’s a lesson in it somewhere.

As I’m jumping, I wonder if his lack of attention has anything to do with his fear of being outed as the local child catcher. Most of the locals think that he left the area late last summer; totally unconnected to the mysterious fire which burnt his bungalow to the ground the day after the Post stupidly printed his address. Not even I know where he’s living at the moment, but my guess is that it’s still somewhere along Parkside. The dew on his car windscreen is never quite dry when he pulls up to meet me in the car park every morning. I suppose I could find out if I wanted, get all X Files on him, but I never ask. Somehow I think it’s his business.

I can understand how having your home unexpectedly going up in smoke can make you nervous. As far as he’s concerned he doesn’t show it, not to me, a kid, when he’s shouting the orders on the track, swearing at me for fucking up the last 50m like I always do on a distance run, and getting all preachy during the cool-down on why I should stop eating so much junk. It’s an act you can almost believe. But when I’m running, always when I’m running, when he thinks that I can’t see him, I notice the way he looks over his shoulder nervously, all the time shouting at me that I’m a slow spazzy fuck-up.

Then again, it’s just as likely to be a picture of an Under 21s Premiership player that’s distracting him. They’re anyone’s at the first sign of flesh, these PPPs (Paedos in Public Positions).

Casey’s kind of negligence is like a red rag to me. Sure, I could take it easy, especially now I’m warmed-up, but I’m not like that. It makes me want to kill the speed on those reps. I’m getting through them faster and faster, until the ten-second rest stop becomes this inconvenience I want exterminating.

At Harriers these days, they just teach you to run towards your goal, nothing more complicated. It’s only since I’ve taken on Casey that I’ve been introduced to visualisation. Casey is a firm believer in seeing what lies at the finish line. Thinks it makes you a better runner.

I’m at the early stages here, so everything I picture is pretty obvious. In recent competitions, particularly the 100m, where any advantage on the opposition is welcome, I’ve used the image of a girl waiting at the finishing line; hot pants, baseball cap, bare tits, and holding a can of ice-cold Pepsi. It sounds cheesy, but she’s won me two races. Depending on how the run is going, who the actual woman is can vary, from Carmen Electra, to Mrs Maude, the geriatric who runs the library. Also, this morning, I seem to be visualising the whole of Moon’s left tit — the only one I managed to clock last night (Jason’s mouth was pretty much clamped on the other).

On the longer runs, and also in training, I’m a lion, breaking the leash and roaring to victory, to devour my bareback girl. I know that there are faster cats that I could visualise, but it’s the lion I like. Hair wild and rangy, something like mine (can’t work out whether that’s the Tamil gene, or the Jew gene). A fierce, fast, ferocious hunter, capable of giving any opponent a good mauling.

Casey calls a take-five, must have done, as he’s now lying on his back with the paper. I’m still proving my point with the reps. I do that sometimes when I’m running, zone out. Really believe in my ability to kick ass.

‘Come on, you young Turk,’ he goes. I’ve told him before I’m Indian, not Turkish, but he never seems to remember.

‘It’s seven-thirty. Cigarette punishment is over. Say ten Hail Marys, and make a promise to Jesus, or whomever you pray to, that you’ll never touch the weed again. Not if you’re serious about your sport, that is.’

‘I am serious, you fruit,’ I laugh, as we head towards the car park.

He lets me call him a fruit from time to time, so long as I make it sound jokey and not malicious.

‘Want a ride home?’

He asks me this at the end of every session. Today, his tone suggests that his heart is in it more than usual. Normally, he makes it sound desperate. This time, it looks like he means it, really needs to have me in the car.

‘No thanks, Casey. I’m best walking.’

‘OK, young Turk.’ He turns quickly to the car, a solitary hand held behind. Useless at hiding his disappointment.

Casey’s feelings fly over my head once we are off the track. I’m not stupid. I know you can only trust a fruit so far. By the time I reach the park gates, and Casey has got into his Clio, I’ve already forgotten about him.

Everyone calls me Veerapen. It’s a family name, that’s why I’ve got it. Veerapen Prendrapen. Some bright idea of Dad’s. Had a heritage bee in his bonnet. Name your son after your grandfather, and then bugger off. How’s that for motivation? Mum, who’s from Bexhill, and very much not a Tamil, wanted to call me Ari, or Alexander. Thought they were classier. She lost the fight on the first name, possibly because Dad went to register my birth on his own, when he told her he was going out to get a nappy bin. As consolation, he went with her choice of middle name, Isaac. You get me? I’m a VIP. The only kosher Tamil in Surrey.