Niven Govinden - Graffiti My Soul

There was a nasty rumour going round last term that one of the South Efrikan supply teachers was confiscating the worst evidence he could find. Rather than taking it to Year Head or whoever, he was flogging downloads onto some bogus website he’d set up. A kind of lucrative cyber-looting. We all do a bit of swopping on MSN from time to time, but it’s harmless stuff. A fiver here and there, or some Smirnoff miniatures if that’s your poison. Not PayPal.

Old Mandela milked the Year 12 punks. Bled every violent experience from them until they were weak and white. And being the first, they were the best of the bunch. They were dedicated to the cause, merciless and without fear. You could almost feel for those unrelenting bastards, until you remember that none of them had any heart to begin with. He only got found out when some other teacher, a non-supply, non-South Efrikan, was ‘browsing’ the web and came across them, which is suspicious in itself. How does someone browse a child-slapping site innocently? Only Year Head knows the answer to that one. The South Efrikan was shipped out before the end of term. Deported, we’d heard. Back to J’burg or whatever fucking township he came from. The creepier browser stayed on, but only to teach those over sixteen. Hmm …

This is Surrey, where nothing bad ever happens.

Moon wears five hundred bracelets under her school cardigan. Rolls up the sleeves at breaktimes to give everyone a flash of quartz and rubber. She isn’t bothered about having skirts that are short or shoes that are high. Says it’s a waste of time, another uniform.

‘I’m not interested in turning up to school looking like one of Charlie’s Angels,’ she goes. ‘I’ve come to school ’cos I wanna learn stuff. Looking like a slapper is bollocks.’

She can afford to say this because everything about her face is nearly perfect. She doesn’t need to draw shit on to create cheekbones or eyes or lips. No craters to cover or clumsily bleached taches to hide.

(It’s only after she’s gone that Gwyn, the evil sister, blows her cover. Tells me about something called sheer make-up.)

Moon is always looking in the direction of the louder girls when she says this stuff. Girls like Kelly Button and Lizzie Jennings, who wear too-tight jumpers and a market-stall weight in gold jewellery. Especially Kelly Button. Making out like Kelly’s the ringleader. Of the dress-like-a-slapper movement. If their eyes meet, Moon will stare and Kelly will scowl. Neither is a fan of the other’s work.

Moon is the least popular girl in our year. Aside from the library crew, and her sister’s friends, most of the bitches won’t speak to her. It also doesn’t help her popularity that she isn’t a fatty. Fat girls with make-up have herds of friends. They stake their claim on various parts of the playground like competitive buffalos. It can feel like living on a ranch some days.

Things would be different if she wore shorter skirts or played a little sport. As things stand, she’s like the girl from the Fantastic Four; invisible for the most part, until one of the eligible boys clocks that she’s looking pretty fine, and then every girl in class will have her on their radar. Willing her to suddenly disappear into whatever’s this week’s equivalent of the Bermuda triangle.

‘So how come you can say all those things, and still wear those?’ I go, bringing it back to the bangles and crystals that smother her pulse points. She’s never without these, or the plastic handbag with the flowers on it, picked up from Cancer Research. She thinks she’s like the girl in that eighties film who always wore pink.

She laughs and gives me the W. Whatever .

‘Because I’m vain. And I’m a girl. I never said anything about not looking pretty.’

Can’t sleep, and not just because of the niggle after slapping the commuter who could be Pearson’s dad. Toss and turn like a maniac. It’s better being out of bed, better still to be out of the house, so I get to the park at five-thirty and start warming up. The park-keeper looks at me like I’m a nutter when he arrives at the gates to open up. If I was, say, twenty years older, closer to Casey’s age, he’d take one look at me and call the local constabulary.

It’s six years today since Dad ran off to Germany with the woman who was supposed to be his optician. It’s the anniversary we pretend we never remember. Mum cried in her room last night when she thought I was watching EastEnders . Not because she misses him, but more to do with the shock. She stills feel the shock. Wash away the make-up, toss the new clothes into the laundry, and it’s still as fresh as anything. And it’s been hard for us. He doesn’t have a clue, with his emails that act like nothing ever happened, and those fucking cheques, which we have to take because nurses get paid shit. This is why I don’t return his calls. Because he’s a selfish bastard.

Casey turns up at six on the dot. He strides onto the track, gives a ‘Howdy, Mr V-pen, sir’, but still has a shaky look about him. He’s wearing the same orange and navy tracksuit and white vest he had on at training yesterday. Same Nike cap, same trainers. This is definitely a sign that something’s up. Casey wears his tracksuits in strict rotation. He’s a stickler for routine. If I have five-day training, which is where I’m at currently, I never see the same ensemble. Green and red Mondays, blue and white Tuesdays, orange and navy Wednesdays, baby blue and black Thursdays, red and white Fridays. Today is Thursday. I shouldn’t be seeing the orange for another week.

‘What’s with the Tango-man tracksuit?’ I go, as soon as he gets within shouting distance. ‘I thought you like to, uh, rotate the looks.’

‘Washing machine’s broken,’ he says, and starts bitching about me doing a slack-handed warm-up because I thought no one was watching.

‘God’s always watching, and don’t you forget it,’ he goes.

‘I think you forgot to have a shower, when God was off watching Queer Eye ,’ I mutter under my breath after I’ve got a honk under my nose. It isn’t just the washing machine that’s busted. He reeks.

‘What’s that?’

Luckily he doesn’t hear, otherwise I’d be doing an extra five laps for cheek.

Casey has an Irish body. Tall and built; strawberry white skin, brown gold crop growing out into a sulky skullcap of curls, a once-trim body which, thanks to worry and drink, is now slowly turning to fat. And old, around thirty-five. If you passed him in the street you’d think he was a butcher or a builder. He didn’t look like this a year ago, and this is the worst thing, I think. That a lifetime of fine-tuning his body, of exercising self-discipline, to the cost of everything else, so that he was as close to a panther as you can become in human form, was all lost. It’s like getting a Lotus and leaving it to rust in the yard. The biggest waste.

I would never tell Casey this as he might get excited, get a stiffy at the thought of me studying him physically, but I have so much respect for him and what he’s done. I wouldn’t be working with him otherwise. Olympic squad at nineteen, try touching that. I often think about him and his body — because even now any athlete can still see what an awesome machine it was. You only have to look at the way he walks — and wonder about the pivotal moment over those few weeks last summer that made him decide to let his body go.

There’s not time for too much funny business. The race is tomorrow. North East Surrey Under 16s. I’m competing in the 400 and 1200m. How’s that for versatility? My timings are all out this morning, though. 1200 is the worst, running it like it’s the marathon. I can’t get my head together. Must have something to do with thinking about Dad, and the unexpected reappearance of You’ve Been Tangoed. My left shoulder and upper arm are still hurting from where the guy at school booted me. No signs of bruising left, but it hurts like hell. I keep this from Casey too, before he offers to lay hands. He’s very eager that way.