Niven Govinden - Graffiti My Soul

‘But how come Moon never knew about it? I would have seen from her face, if she did.’

‘Because I knew how obsessed with her you are… were. How obsessed with her you were . How you tried so hard for her to think that you were perfect. That’s the reason she was into Pearson, in case you didn’t get it — ’cos he’s riddled with imperfections. You try too hard to conceal yours.’

‘Are you really that easy talking about Pearson like this?’

She’s ordered a half bottle of wine for herself, and because they’re new and foreign, the staff let it go. She polishes it off almost in one.

‘Not really. But as long as he gets what’s coming to him, I’ll just about be OK.’

‘Which is?’

‘Nothing less than a long and painful stretch. He killed my sister. He needs locking up.’

The first time I see Pearson is at next lesson, English, but Mrs Doe runs her class like a concentration camp, so you can’t make the slightest attempt at desk-to-desk conversation unless you want to get killed. We both sit in the centre: me far right by the window, him far left nearest the door. Three desks between us. I have my registration in this room, so haven’t moved an inch since I got here. He makes class by the skin of his teeth as usual, so there’s no opportunity to exchange pleasantries, which is a big shame. I’m so angry, I’m ready to pull his teeth out.

We spend forty minutes detachedly discussing some book that no one’s interested in. Mrs Doe is usually good at reading the code amongst the kids, but she’s too busy terrorising us to pick up on our simmering. Also, she was probably late from having a last-minute fag in the language lab with Mrs Fletcher, and so didn’t get her ear pulled by Year Head about putting me into witness protection.

I write Jase a note and slip it to him via Chinese Peter.

We all talk about this Rob Fleming guy and his record shop like he’s under the microscope, like none of us have ever fucked-up in our lives. Like, ever. And Pearson is the most scathing of the lot. And because he’s talking so much, because he’s actually read the book for a change, Mrs Doe is nodding her head excitedly and lapping it up. It’s enough to make you sick.

‘It’s not like real life. Who buys records any more?’

‘You’re such an expert on real life,’ goes Jase. ‘You’re a regular documentary-maker.’

‘And he moans all the way through. He’s such a loser.’

‘Stop interrupting, Jason. Daniel’s making an interesting point here. Don’t stop, Daniel, please carry on. What makes, him moaning d’you think?’

‘A bad technique with women. Those lists. They’re not even interesting.’

No one’s laughing. Mrs Doe’s not picking up on anything. Eyes too blurry with the joy of teaching . Focusing on Pearson like he’s her private student or something.

‘How about this, Daniel. Here’s a man whose life is littered with so many disappointments that he’s become paralysed with fear. That if he makes a mistake, any happiness with the girl of his dreams will disappear. Do you think his moaning is more or less understandable in this context?’

I’m looking at Chinese Peter, but he’s ignoring me. The note is under his book and isn’t moving from there, not whilst Mrs Doe is in the vicinity.

‘He goes on about lists all the time because it’s the only thing he gets right,’ I pipe up, making as much noise as possible. ‘Makes him feel good about himself.’

‘He’s hiding,’ Pearson barks back, eyes locked. ‘My parents taught me to have a low opinion of anyone who hides away from their problems. People like that deserve a slap.’

The only sound in the room comes from Jase scraping his chair back. Note received. He’s two seats away from Pearson and could have him eating parquet in a minute. The temperature shifts. The atmosphere becomes thicker and gets caught in my throat. Everyone in class is less interested in Mrs Doe and her legendary temper, and more intrigued by the current exchange of opinion. They all know that we won’t be talking about soppy books for much longer.

It’s not nails down the blackboard, but it comes close: Jase still seated and pushing his chair slowly back. A plan formulating behind those pinched eyes.

‘No one’s interested in this book, miss. Why can’t we read that one on The Krays, like the other class?’

Pearson continues to lecture but, like the rest of the room, has his eyes on the chair legs as they move closer to the desk behind. Jase is no longer holding his text open at the page we are supposed to be examining. His fist is wrapped around his pen, nib out. Even Lizzie Jennings, who’s supposed to hate him after he dumped her outside Tesco, is fixed on his every move.

‘I would hardly call The Krays literature,’ goes Mrs Doe, who, with her sixth sense that all of the older teachers have when they sniff an ounce of trouble, moves to a space behind our row of desks, at a point equidistant between the two of us.

She stands legs apart, arms behind her back like a high-kicking FBI chick who kills truculent boys with her bare hands. This would be funny if she wasn’t nearly sixty and so sharp-tongued.

‘Has anyone else got any thoughts they’d like to share? We can talk about any book you like, so long as it’s fiction.’

Only me and Pearson raise our hands.

He’s up on his feet. I wasn’t ready. For once I was actually thinking about the book. The sound of more chairs sliding back, a symphony of screech as everyone prepares themselves for what they think will come next.

It’s all very quick. Mrs Doe doesn’t get a chance to move out of her FBI-agent-on-alert position. Everything that happens is down to Jase.

In years to come, if we are all still alive and haven’t been fried in the electric chair, Jase’s dive will become legendary: a sudden leap downwards that most goalies would kill for. It helps that his arms are so long and rubbery, shooting past the statue that is Mrs Doe, and reaching for Pearson’s legs.

Both of them are on the floor. Jason on top of Pearson and going for his throat. Pearson struggling to break free, his hands uselessly flattened under him. He wriggles like a half-alive fish in the fryer and makes use of his legs instead, giving one high kick after another. Most get Jason in the back. Only one manages to hit the target and get him in the head. Gives Jase a hint. He stops strangling Pearson and starts bashing his head against the floor instead.

Mrs Doe is getting her hands dirty during all of this. She doesn’t quite step between the boys, but does a job in trying to get Jase off Pearson. She looks like she’d like to slide between them and act as a buffer, if only she wasn’t wearing a skirt. She stands to the right, closest to the boys’ heads, and pulls at Jase’s shoulder, hefty pulls that wouldn’t look out of place on a farm, country wife pulling calf out of a ditch, that kind of thing. She gets Jase up a couple of times, but isn’t able to see it through. As soon as he senses her tiring, which comes after each great heave, he dives back downwards, the full weight of his body falling back on Pearson. His arms still locked around the bastard’s neck means that Pearson is granted a similar window.

Everyone by this point is up on their feet, including me. With Mrs Doe taking the head, I stand at their feet as they flip back and forth, feeling useless and not relieved. It should have been me choking the breath out of Pearson, not Jase. It should have been my call. Pearson continues to twist around, making it hard for Jase to maintain a firm grip, but seeing his face contorted like a fucker, childbirth sounds replacing all the words of earlier, cheeks puffed out with the sheer exertion it takes simply trying to breathe, I still wished it was my hands round his throat. As it was, the way they were thrashing about, I couldn’t get involved without looking like Jase’s boyfriend, even if you counted all the stuff that had happened earlier. I’m useless. A spare part that’s good for nothing.