Graffiti My Soul by Niven Govinden Page A

she’s seriously evangelical, going on about how this could really open doors for me if I stick at it, and how we really need to find a trainer to give me the one-on-one attention I’m entitled to.
    My mobile goes. It’s Casey. I flick it off straightaway.
    â€˜Who was that?’ she asks.
    â€˜Wrong number,’ I say.
    She’s not listening, though, still too het-up about my chances.
    â€˜These bloody Harriers are taking the piss if they can’t see what’s in front of their noses. You were the best thing to ever happen to that centre, and they just let you walk away. I’m going to have it out with Brendan if he doesn’t set you up with a trainer. I’ll take it all the way to the top, if I have to.’
    I drop the drumstick, and start telling her how I’m happier training on my own. Inwardly I’m shitting it, because I know that this is the moment when I should tell her about Casey, but luckily it starts raining as we turn into Broadhurst. Chucking it down. Rain hitting the windscreen so fast and so thick you can’t see shit.
    Mum drives around Surrey most of the day because of work, but isn’t the most confident at the wheel. Her trick is to over-compensate a lack of bottle with speed. Many a time we’ve come within inches of a parked car, a wall, or various cyclists. The only time she takes it tosnail trail is when the elements hit, like they are now. She’s stopped going on about my running, and jumps off the gas, so we’re rolling at about 10 mph. The wipers are flapping across the screen at max but doing fuck all.
    â€˜Shit,’ she goes.
    She literally only ever swears in the car.
    â€˜Relax, we’re on Broadhurst. We’ll be home in a couple of minutes.’
    In her mind it’s half a mile of potential hazards.
    Jason is on the street getting soaked. Must have finished a shift at Tesco. Looks like he’s spent his wages there too. Carrying more bags than Pauline Fowler.
    Mum’s going so slowly she doesn’t even have to stop for Jase. I flip open the door and he throws the bags in, followed by himself.
    â€˜Hello.’
    â€˜Hello.’
    â€˜Hello, Mrs Prendrapen.’
    â€˜Don’t be so formal, Jason. Vivienne, remember?’
    â€˜OK. Hello, Vivienne, lovely to see you.’
    He drops it so smoothly, it’s enough to make Mum blush. He’s a right charmer, is Jase.
    â€˜Have some chicken,’ I tell him. ‘It’s the shizzle.’
    â€˜Fo’ shizzle, m’nizzle,’ he goes, which makes me break out into giggles like some girl.
    â€˜Can you speak proper English whilst you’re in the car?’ says Mum, smiling, but with eyebrows raised. ‘I might not be able to make out every word, but I know swearing when I hear it.’
    There’s enough time to exchange pleasantries in the minute it takes to reach his house. I have a quick glance at the bags as he’s shaking the rain out of his brittle skinhead turning to fuzz and onto Mum’s back seat. Three of them are filled with ready-meal crap; the others are crammed with boxes of Matchmakers. His mum, as well as being an agoraphobic, is a bulimic, also brought on by the hit and run. This would be funny if you didn’t know her, and hadn’t heard about how she feeds almost solely on Matchmakers (and when they’re inseason, Easter eggs). But we know Jason, so it isn’t a laughing matter. His dad ended up leaving because of it – but he still sees him, so at least he doesn’t hate his as much as I do mine. Mum knows the situation inside out, and has tried to help her several times, but Billie – Jase’s mum – won’t listen to anyone. Each visit is a failure.
    Mum stops the car outside Jason’s. The car stinks of damp and stale chicken. The rain was a five-minute wonder. Now it’s non-existent. She laughs girlishly at her panic, because we have company, like it’s