Niven Govinden - Graffiti My Soul

‘Mum, it’s really hurting now.’

‘Good. So get talking.’

I open my eyes when Gwyn starts slapping me. Turns out she didn’t want me to kiss her at all. I got excited, misread the signals and dived in. She only wanted to tell me about the police letter, pulls it out of her bag and starts waving it about angrily, just in case I didn’t believe her.

Also, wanted to check that I was OK, but now wishes that she hadn’t bothered. Looks really pissed about the whole thing. Says that she knew it was a bad idea to come here. All this mixing in these circumstances is never going to work out. She’s on her feet now, and keeps pulling her skirt down as low as it will go, making it look like I was molesting her. Honey, if you wanna know about being molested, this most definitely wasn’t it.

I thought it was a tender moment, nothing to do with wandering hands, all about our eyes connecting, and our lips. Some kind of acknowledgement towards Moon, but she doesn’t see it that way, only wants to see the dirt. What is it with people wanting to see the bad in everything? That was a beautiful moment we had, and now she wants to soil it because of her guilt.

I try to have a look at her letter, change the subject, but she snatches it away as soon as I come anywhere near. Says that she wouldn’t be surprised if it was me that Moon had been talking about, the guy who kept pressuring her into sex. She had presumed it was Pearson, following that afternoon when she’d discovered them on the sofa, but now she wasn’t so sure. Something about the way my hand was aggressively cupping her tits. OK, I touched her tits, I admit it, but just the one, and I didn’t go any lower than that. It was all about our lips at that point. Really.

When girls are like this, there is no point in arguing. The sisters seem very alike all of a sudden. The way Gwyn’s eyebrows join together as she calls me a slimy piece of shit, it’s like looking into a Moon mirror. Couldn’t see it when she was around, but now… I tell Gywn to take her poxy letter and to get the hell out, the way they do on most of those TV shows when they’re feeling mad and completely misunderstood. First time I’ve done it, not counting whenever I row with Mum. It’s surprisingly effective. Better than Eva Mendes, she takes her coat and her mysterious letter, warns me that I’m in big trouble, and is gone in less than sixty seconds.

People, especially old people over the age of thirty-five, are creatures of habit. They’re like little hamsters running in cages, from wheel to wheel to wheel. Unless they go for spontaneity and do something drastic like buy a Ferrari, or run off to Germany with an optician, they seem to be happy sticking to the same old routine, day in, day out. Up at seven, shit at seven-fifteen, out the house by eight, lunch at one, dinner at six, fuck at ten forty-five, bed at eleven. No more so than this part of the world, where it’s routine central. If I ever get that boring, I want someone to come along and kill me. I don’t ever want to become another hamster.

I knew where he’d be even before I set out. The train pulls into the station at 6.58. He’d be at the bottom of the hill on Auriol Park Road at ten-past. He’d still have the same coat on. Same shoes. He’d still have the same briefcase, but he’d hold onto it tighter; he’d be warier. That’s the difference.

Solo mission, no Jason. Not interested in taking photos either. If I get a couple, that’d be a bonus, but the point of the job isn’t about collecting evidence. It’s strictly snatch and run. Beat and run. Pearson needs to feel some of the hurt by association. This seems to be the only way.

His dad’s still walking the way he used to: slow slow quick-quick slow, this lumbering rhythm that always seems to be playing catch-up with itself. If running does anything for you, it gives you an ear, makes you listen to the rhythm of steps. Even before you see someone coming, you can listen out for the steps, and get a measure of what kind of person they are; skinny or obese, good-tempered or twisted. Runner’s second sight, innit, the listening. When I’m retired I can go on stage with it, my second sight, turn it into a big travelling show. Make a fortune.

The walk is a tired walk. Nervous, but tired. He hasn’t gone back to his old comfortable self, the quick-quick steps speak volumes about that. He still feels the fear of what we did to him, and that’s good, because he needs to.

If you’re worried about being out after dark, you really shouldn’t wander the streets where the lighting is useless; where the only sounds you hear are your feet as they go pad pad pad, the thickness of your breath and the thump of your heart as it breaks out into a drum & bass solo. It’s all your own fault really, if something should happen to you there, on the dark and empty streets, so neat and clean, that you shouldn’t have been on in the first place.

But once I get there, it becomes less to do with the briefcase and more to do with getting some colour back into his cheeks.

‘What’s the matter, you’ve gone pale,’ I say. ‘It’s not right that you don’t have rosy cheeks. Not healthy. We better do something about that.’

‘What’s this about? Didn’t you get what you wanted last time?’

‘I forgot something.’

‘Don’t think I’m not going to fight back this time.’

‘Show me what you can do, grandad.’

‘You stupid shit. You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?’

Pearson’s dad spits the word out at me like I’m the filthiest street scum alive. He’s standing up straight, back arched like a cat preparing for danger.

Taking the initiative, he pushes me, but that doesn’t work because I’m standing tall with my feet wide apart. Toes pointed. Keeps me welded to the ground, like a pylon. Unshakeable.

Next minute, he’s faffing about trying to get something out of his briefcase, but I’ve prised it out of his hand and flung the thing over the fence into Auriol Park before he manages to flip the second catch. Combination locks are the bomb for people like me. Secure as you like, but no good in an emergency.

Probably lucky he didn’t get his hand inside and make contact with the pepper spray or whatever it was he was after. He’s so angry he would have been lethal with it. Eyes bulging like a maniac. Hands stiff and outstretched like the Auriol Frankenstein, ready to grab my throat. I’ve got all the respect in the world for technique, those self-defence masters that are all about showing you the right thing to do , that preparation is the best defence , which is why I haven’t taken any of his abuse seriously. Why I don’t feel the threat. No amount of self-defence seminars are gonna prepare you for my level of preparation. It’s why I’ve floored him even before he’s finished speaking and drawn breath.

But then he’s running after me, so I may have been projecting when I said that he was lumbering. He’s on his feet quicker than a person his age should be. Sprints after me as I head into the park. Probably not a bad thing. Gives the old boy the chance to have a bit of a run round. Tire him out a bit. I’ll get him on the floor again, easy.

My heart probably shouldn’t be pumping the way it is; like one of those cheesy Vegas showgirls giving a succession of rapid-fire high-kicks. Thump thump thump thump thump. No let-up. I’m not scared exactly, but I’m feeling the pressure. Most of the time you punk someone, they stay on the ground inert, like a broken doll. I’d long stopped holding out for that extra variable, where they’d get up and start getting all vigilante on my arse.

This is what fucks my head up. I start thinking too much about the piousness of the Surrey viligante who wants to keep the streets clean. Who probably wants to keep the streets white. I start seeing red…