Niven Govinden - Graffiti My Soul

I do something with the legs, push them about a bit, so that it looks like I’m doing something. If you were standing over me, I’d look real busy the way I rolled my sleeves up and got my hands dirty. You wouldn’t guess that my heart wasn’t in it.

‘Pull him towards you! See if you can make a gap!’ shouts Mrs Doe, pointing at Jase with her spare arm. She thinks I’m trying to break them up. I take everything back about the sixth-sense stuff. She’s thick.

She yells something else a couple of times, but I can’t hear her over the noise from the rest of the class, who are now circling us and screaming all kinds of stuff. No one names names, in case it implicates them later on, but reading between the lines it’s mostly shit about Pearson asking for it. Aside from the predictable stoner stuff mouthed by the pretty girls who wished they were at a school where they had cheerleaders, there isn’t a bad word to be said about Jase. He’s safe, totally.

I’m still pissing about with the lower half, unable to get a punch in, especially now Mrs Doe has christened me her special envoy. I don’t feel angry now either, for some reason. Being the gooseberry fighter seems to have drained it out of me. Either that, or any feeling I have is being transferred over to a now-colourless Pearson.

The bell goes, five minutes early. Everyone stops a second, including Jase and Pearson. He loosens his grip on his neck and lets Pearson get some breaths in. The way Pearson gulps for air so noisily, like he’s either going to cry or be sick, is so undignified. It makes me embarrassed for him. The bell rings too loud and too long to be a lesson bell. We all stand like statues, not sure of what we’re hearing. Fire practise? At a time like this?

Mrs Doe regains her scary element and howls at everyone to clear the room.

‘Get out! Get out!’ she shouts, like she’s just found her husband boffing the neighbour or something.

Jase and Pearson are already up on their feet. They’re not stupid. They want to kick the shit out of each other, but neither wants to fry to a crisp unnecessarily. Also, a persistent fire bell gets us all off the hook. Mrs Doe is too busy counting heads and shooing us out to do anything else.

We do the sensible thing and hide in the second-floor loos: me, Jase, and a now-breathing Pearson. Moon, who’s been txted, is already waiting for us. It’s times like this that you need some privacy to handle your business.

Gwyn corners me when I’m taking out the bins.

‘I don’t want you getting any ideas, but I want to make a go of it, us being friends. I don’t care what anyone will think. Life’s too short.’

‘You don’t know how happy that makes me,’ I go, hugging her in the middle of the drive, not caring whether my mum or her mum sees us.

‘This doesn’t have anything to do with you telling me about Moon in those last moments. That’ll come when you’re ready. For now, let’s just enjoy things.’

She moves her mouth to my cheek, but I keep her in the hug. Grateful, uncertain. Looks more convincing this way.

I tell her again how happy this makes me, but not how good it will make me look if anyone starts to dig too deep into what I did and didn’t do when Pearson had his hand on the knife.

There’s a whole load of things we shouldn’t have done:

— Jason shouldn’t have left to retrieve his iPod

— We shouldn’t have given up on words

— Moon shouldn’t have come between me and Pearson

— Pearson shouldn’t have been tooled up

— I shouldn’t have gone for Pearson’s wrist once he’d got the knife out, and started twisting it

— Pearson shouldn’t have kept hold of the knife

— I shouldn’t have kept twisting his lower arm, and pushing, slamming his back against the sink

— Pearson shouldn’t have kept hold of the knife

— Moon shouldn’t have tried to prise us apart, not while I still had a hand on his arm

— Pearson shouldn’t have been tooled up

— Moon shouldn’t have spoken when she did

— I shouldn’t have still been twisting Pearson’s arm

— Pearson shouldn’t have lunged towards me

— Moon shouldn’t have been wedged between us

— Moon shouldn’t have been caught in the stomach

— Not cut. Plunged. Sounding like a potato falling into a sack

— Moon shouldn’t have looked at me like that. That’s all I’ve got to say about it

— We shouldn’t have frozen. We could have saved Moon otherwise

— The toilets shouldn’t have been the most silent room in the school. One of us should have done something

— I shouldn’t have run to the far corner like some coward

— Pearson shouldn’t have had his hand still on the knife

— Moon shouldn’t have just stood there. She should have run towards me for help

— Pearson shouldn’t have taken the knife out

— Moon shouldn’t be losing this amount of blood. It’s like someone’s dipped her shirt in red ink

— I shouldn’t have stood in the corner like a dirty peeping tom. I should have tried to do something

— Pearson shouldn’t still have the knife in his hand, not when Year Head comes in

— Jason shouldn’t have followed her back in

— Year Head shouldn’t have screamed. It sent Pearson further into shock

— Jason shouldn’t have screamed. It woke me up and I saw how far Moon was gone

— Year Head shouldn’t have tried to give First Aid. It was way too late for that, you can’t just scoop the lost blood back into a person. All it did was ensure she’d have a messed up mind for years to come

— Jason shouldn’t have been packed off to call for assistance. If he’d have seen more, I might have been able to open up to him

— Moon shouldn’t have stayed so silent

— Pearson shouldn’t have lost the use of his mouth

— I shouldn’t have regained the use of mine. Made sure I got my story straight

Mike takes me out when Mum isn’t around. Eases me back into the outside world. Going to the Oaks on Epsom Downs, where he gives me a tenner to bet with and I lose the lot. Letting me get away with some very illegal Mercedes-driving on the lanes around Dorking. He takes things slowly. Doesn’t pretend to be a dad. Acts like he might actually be interested in me; that I might be worth knowing. Having Mike around makes me less afraid — about a lot of things.

‘Want to try flying a plane? There’s an airfield about an hour away I could take you to, if you like.’

‘You’d let me fly a plane?’

‘There’s training to do first, fella. You’ve got a couple of years making-do with the simulator before we can let you go charging around. But…’

‘No worries. I’ll ask Mum when I’m eighteen.’

‘You give up too easy, V! We can’t call ourselves an action team unless we get you up in a plane! I’ll take you up this afternoon. So you can get a feel for it.’

‘You’d do that?’

‘Course! And when you need your form signing, come to me. I’ll still be around.’

A week later at paintballing, he throws himself in front of me to avoid getting hit by his goon friends. He gets caught on the shoulder, the force sending him headlong into my sternum. He holds the pain in his jaw, his priority being a pat on the shoulder to see if I’m OK, and then a push towards the nearest tree before I make a big deal about it.

Once we got the hang of the paintguns, we’re heroic on the field. Kings of stealth. Moving in sync like a boyband. He’s all signs and no sound. I’m his mirror. By the time our session’s over, I’ve all these endorphins flooding out of me. Makes me feel like doing a victory lap.