Graffiti My Soul Read Online Free PDF Page B

loser to be thinking it, but can’t help it. That thought, that death, is always there.
    He’s already back in my face before I stopped thinking my horrible thoughts, luxuriously picking the scab. Looks pissed off.
    â€˜This is stupid. There’s no one about.’
    â€˜Give it some time, eh? There’ll probably be some action after eight.’
    We always make sure we have our fun before ten-thirty. Any playfulness that coincides with closing time can lead to situations with older kids that are out of our depth. I speak from experience.
    â€˜Fuck that. It’s too cold tonight. Let’s go back to that commuter, and then we can go indoors.’
    Jase is the only person I know who calls home ‘indoors’. His family aren’t even cockneys. We’re all pretending to be something round here.
    I agree that this commuter’s our boy, and we black up: caps on, hoodies up, scarves wrapped tight around our faces, so that all you can see are the eyes. I make sure mine is pulled so tight that it feels like its been stitched into my head. It wouldn’t take the police five minutes to knock on our door if the scarf fell and the commuter got a full-frontal mugshot of a local Paki wearing Nike. There’s only about five of us in this town. Finding the right teenage darkie is no needle-in-a-haystack exercise.
    Jase is on fist duty tonight, we take it in turns, leaving me to be the cameraman. He leads, a head-start set at a standard thirty seconds. Means potential playmates let down their guard as they see the lone cyclist riding past, until, that is, he does the sharpest of U-ies, arriving at a point too close to their personal space for comfort. (Early on we made a decision not to go after the girls, unless we chanced across one of the school bitches who needed to be taught a lesson. Bad karma otherwise.)
    This commuter, who’s walked up and down the hill, and now onto Lower Park Road proper, sings like the rest of them. He’s early fifties, and kinda fit looking, but doesn’t put up any kind of fight. Must be down to the surprise element, I suppose. Textbook scenario.
    I normally have a moment on the pause button once I’ve done the U-ie with a playmate and got into their space. Probably my favourite part of the job. When you suddenly crash into their universe, become a part of their history. A second or so is all you need. Taking that time to register their face, and to clock their brains working overtime: eyes invariably widened, forehead and brows wriggling infear like a can of worms. Looking for information that I am regrettably obliged to give.
    Jase takes his spectator moment after. He says it’s because he likes to see their distress once they’ve realised that they’ve been punked. So there’s no time for niceties with the commuter, or intimate eye contact; once he’s headed in their direction, he’s strictly business. Makes out he’s grabbing the briefcase, but gets the guy on the ground, classic trip-style. Gives a push, just one, when the commuter makes his only attempt at a struggle. All this without a word being said. (Another reason why it’s better to leave out girls. They normally want to have a fucking conversation with you as you’re trying to go about your business.)
    At this point, I’m in the area, phone ready on camera option. Jase holds him down – the classic foot-on-the-gas pose – and I click: one, two, one more for luck. Done.
    He’s still not making a sound, this commuter. We’re all three of us united by our heavy breathing, but that’s about it. With blokes this age and build, you have to be in and out like a dynamo, before they regain their senses and start acting the hero. This one guy chased us all the way to the bypass. He only stopped because he was winded or was having a heart attack or something (couldn’t have been anything major, because we never saw it in the local