Graffiti My Soul (19 page)

He smiles the way people do when they think that they know everything: teachers, mothers, disgraced trainers with persecution complexes.

‘What I like to do, when I'm having trouble with a girl, is to rise above it. I'm not saying that I do rise above it, just that I want it to look that way. I act like I don't give a damn. Make out I'm busy, really busy, that I've got all kinds of things on my mind that have nothing to do with her.'

‘Who says I'm having trouble with a girl? I've just come for a drink.'

‘Man, grant me some intelligence. I got eyes.'

‘I'm only here for the drink.'

‘I've been looking at your face, and how it changed the minute
that girl came in. You were all teeth smiling, and then your brow knotted. Still smiling, but brow knotted. Classic sign of holding something in. It's gotta be about the girl, right? I can't see anyone else in that group making you feel that way.'

‘Yeah. Course it's a girl. I'm not stressing out over a goat, am I?'

Heart sat firmly in my throat, hoping that if he's this good, he won't strip back the layers and find what I was thinking about Jason minutes before that. How much more can a thick old illegal Sri Lankan be capable of picking up?

‘What d'you think I should do?'

I have to ask. There's no one else here, and I need something. If this was Casey I was talking to, I'd make him take me down to his church, see if the Fellowship brothers have the answer; but even though I've only known Keith for about five seconds, I know that I can talk to him about girls the way I never can with Casey. He's too busy watching his back to think that I might need to talk about
les bitches
and the messed-up stuff that comes with them. I'm not latching onto anyone. Keith is here, and just looks like he wants to help.

He has customers, three kids the year below me who want Supersizes and keep changing their mind between Coke and Tango, and then diet over full-fat. Two girls and a guy, meaning that they're all giggles and no focus. Getting a drink, changing your shoes, going for a slash, everything's a fucking holiday for these retards. I have to butt in and tell them to speed it up before I start hitting them. They shut the fuck up after that.

Between the kids, and then the beer tap, presumably for yours truly, Keith is kept busy whilst he thinks over his answer. The beer tap is one of those slow runners, it's not like the taps you get on sinks. Obviously I don't spend my time hanging out in pubs, so I've never seen how beer taps actually give. If you're desperate for a kiddie cup, you need to place your order an hour beforehand. It's millilitre by millilitre, something like the way his thoughts are beginning to ferment and distil: drip drop, drip drop. It's only when the cup is filled that I get anything out of him.

‘Take a leaf out of the Jamaicans' book, man. Relax. Take it easy.'

‘I ain't no Yardie. I don't smoke weed, and I don't drink rum.'

‘I'm not talking about that, man. Just a little island mentality. Stop and breathe a moment. Don't get all hot-headed around the girl and start acting like a fool.'

‘Why not, Keith? It sounds like the best idea to me.'

‘Because that's what she wants!'

And it was like someone had switched the light on all of a sudden. Moon, out of the shadows and illuminated, like under proper harsh fluorescent strip lighting, not the rosy-tinted bollocks I'd been using all this time in my head. Sri Lankans speaking sense, revealing the mysteries of the world like a bunch of fucking yogis. If I wasn't so sober, I wouldn't have believed it . . . or been dazzled by the way the new light was shinning on Moon and her not-so-flawless face.

‘It's what she wants, man. You're making trouble for yourself. And it just does the opposite of your true intentions, all the shouting, the pushing, rabble-rousing, makes her think that she's right. Not you. Her.'

‘Are you a misogynist or something? Like, do you actually like women? 'Cos the way you're talking sounds you're the one with the chip on your shoulder, not me.'

‘I've been married to my wife for seven years, and I'm very happy, thank you. This isn't about hating women. It's about understanding their tricks.'

‘So you think that I'm right, then? Not her? How do you come to that conclusion? You don't even know me.'

A sip of strong beer plus wound up tension equals dark-skinned contempt. I can't help it.

Keith is too busy wringing out his beer towels to notice. He looks up and gets the stumpy brown thumbs out. Gives me the Fonz.

‘Because we're brothers, man. That's how I know. Brothers of the Indian Ocean, innit? Us guys are always in the right, no matter what other people think.'

‘What makes you so sure of the Indian Ocean connection? I could be from anywhere.'

‘Not with those genes, man. You can travel halfway round the world. You could be in some Penthouse in New York in ten years' time, but you can't escape your genes.'

This is less to do with smart talk, his intuition, I think, and more down to Jason and his slack gob. Become a friend to Jason and he'll tell you anything.

I go for a piss and take my sorry ass, now slightly calmed by the voice of my people, and my new Supersized sippy cup back to the banquette, moving closer to the end lanes so I get a taste of the action. If I'm going to act aloof and unaffected, I may as well do it from a position where I can hear exactly what's going on.

Moon isn't playing. She stands around the score-zone acting cheerleader.

‘SEVEN YEAH ! . . . THREE YEAH . . . STRIKE YEAH!'

She could be reading a magazine, the amount of interest she's showing.

That's why they needed Jason. Pearson wasn't joking about needing to make up numbers. The four of them are clustered around the foot of their lane, virtually breathing down the neck of whoever's up. Anyone who manages to ignore that and bowl in a straight line is a bloody miracle-worker.

This is why Pearson will never become a sportsman of any note, not because he's fucking useless, but because he has no respect for the rules of play. There are times when it's more important than ability. It's why I have to swallow my temper down if I don't win a race the way I should've, 'cos one day, when I'll really need it, some doddery old track official will remember my humility and vote in favour of the Tamil Jew. When it's down to a photo finish, this shit counts. It's something Pearson will never learn, because in his head he has all the arrogance in the world to carry him through.

They're not being quiet about it either, all taking the piss and calling whoever's holding the ball a blind spastic cunt. The prohibition beer goes some way to explaining their enthusiasm. Jase, getting busy whilst
I was in the bog; as far as he's concerned, kiddie cups are for sharing. He's the one who's the most excited, shouting the loudest, cussing the hardest. He's happy to be included, wants to show that he's nailed it, this being-part-of-the-gang business. He can take it or leave it, but tonight he's happy to take it, yes-sir-thank-you-very-much. I have to concentrate on staring at Moon, 'cos if I look too long at Jase and see how's letting himself be so happy with these idiots it'll break my heart.

No one wants their mates to be hurt in any way, but people gotta learn lessons.

Pearson throws a look in her direction at every other cheer.

‘This one's for you, babe,' he goes, before each one of his rounds, like he's John Travolta in
Grease
, and we're the fucking muppets with nothing better to do than egg him on. He's giving so much cheese you can smell it from here. There may be a kiss in it for her if he gets a strike, or if he can be bothered to move his ass the several steps it takes to reach her, what with heckling the other guys proving to be more important.

I stand as close as I need to be heard, no closer.

‘Why would a person want to come up the Bowl if all they're going to do is change their shoes and then stand around the sidelines?'

She gives a hollow laugh that sticks in her throat, the kind she uses when she's about to put the boot in. Also, walking me in the direction of the arcade games where we won't be overheard.

‘Yeah, you really are wasting your time, aren't you? Standing around . . . on the sidelines.'

‘I'm not talking about me! I'm talking about you.'

‘So stop trying to be so clever if you don't want to be wound up! What business is it of yours where I go? If I wanna change into bowling shoes, I'll change into bowling shoes, who gives a shit?'

‘Isn't it an expensive way to watch a stupid game of bowling?'

She looks at me as if I'm stupid.

‘I don't pay, twat-head. He does.'

‘He knows how to treat a girl. I bought you that top, and he takes you bowling.'

‘Why do you always have to make this a competition? Jesus. He's my boyfriend. You were never my boyfriend. End of discussion.'

‘Don't get het-up. I was just making an observation.'

‘Keep your observations to yourself. No one's interested.'

Jase hasn't looked at me once since I've come over here, talking of observation.

‘Moon, I . . .'

‘Veerapen, look. We've had the conversation, more than once. Let's not have it again. Just sip on your illegally obtained beer like a good little boy, and go and growl somewhere else.'

She's hard. He's made her so hard. In the old days, she'd have given me a funny face or something to show that she wasn't being malicious. Any chats we'd have about my welfare or hers was because we cared. This is anything but. Her face frozen in its finality, copied from dozens of shabby daytime soap operas, she turns back to the scoreboard like I'm no longer worth bothering with.

I go back to the toilet where I punch the cubicle door a few times. It makes me feel better. The knuckles on my left hand are bashed to fuck, but it's fine. It's my feet I need to look after, not my hands.

When I get back, Jase is thrashing everyone with a fifty-point lead, and Pearson compensates by bitching about Keith, who won't serve him with any more beer.

‘I'm going to get that Abdul kicked out. One bad word from me and he'll lose his job.'

‘Fuck off, Pearson, who are you kidding? You don't have that kind of power,' I go. ‘This isn't some country club that your parents are members of. This is a cruddy bowling alley. They couldn't give these jobs away.'

‘'Kinell, Dan,' goes Jase. ‘Keith's all right, man. Leave him alone. We wouldn't have got that round of beers in the first place if it wasn't for Keith.'

‘Keith, Abdul, whatever his name is. He can't just decide to stop serving us when he feels like it. If he felt so strongly about us getting pissed, he shouldn't have given you anything in the first place.'

‘Jase has only got one round in. You can't be pissed on one round of beers, surely?'

The knuckles might be fucked, but there's still a way to put the boot in, if you know what to do.

He talks some stupidness about having a few before coming out, which everyone knows is wack, even the thicko in-breds he came out with suss that. His parents won't let him take a shit in that house without knowing about it, now he reckons he kicks back in his room with a bottle of JD?

We're all laughing at his foolishness, even Moon, who looks at him like he's an idiot. One more move in that state and she'd be well over him. If only . . .

‘I'm gonna give him a kicking when he gets out of here. I hope he's a fast runner.'

‘Who are you talking about?' goes Moon, though we all know what he's saying.

‘That fucking monkey at the bar. He can't be embarrassing me in public like that. I ain't having it. Who the fuck is he to decide who can drink and who can't?'

Jase is pulling at his shoulder, ‘C'mon, man, leave it. No biggie, eh?'

‘Dan, stop making an issue out of it. You're acting like a prat.'

Moon's voice, suddenly acquiring the authoritative tone of her mother, cuts through the bullshit; the pitch, like diamond cutting glass.

Taking a third toilet break (it's the sippy cups, they kill any semblence of tight bladder action), the others are back on their game, and he's still talking about it. If the guy at the bar had been some cockney wideboy from a longboat on the river, you know he wouldn't have said anything.

Jokers, man, these guys I hang round with.

Now he's talking about cleverness, instead. Of brain over fist, which gets my ears up, 'cos I thought I was the only person who worked in that department.

‘If I tell my dad how shocked I was to see a Sri Lankan gentleman
serving beer to clearly under-age Indian customers, and how I was worried that it was going unnoticed, he'd send a letter up to that place like a shot.'

I feel this thing rising in my chest that I haven't felt for a long time swamping my upper cavity, powering the acceleration of my heart, filling my brain. Working my legs as I move away from the still-arguing/still-pacifying group, heading over to one of the free shelves where the extra balls are kept. Looking for one just light enough, but weighty enough, to deliver a blow . . . if it was thrown at someone you had an issue with.

It's a beauty. Blue, puke-making blue, like the top that Moon is wearing, and small-sized, like the dinky pumpkins you get in those growing competitions. This isn't a kiddie bowl, it's heavy, and solid, like it was designed for midget men with strong throwing power. I have height on my side, and can't get my fingers in the hole, but it's the kind of prize that fits tight in the ball of my hand and I lean down and cup it. I think about the shot-throwers at school, their form as they run, body turn and throw, all this still powered by the continuing swelling in my chest, like a wave still a mile from breaking. Beautiful, euphoric, deadly.

Moon's hand covers mine.