The Late Hector Kipling

by David Thewlis

  An hour goes by.

  Another beer and ten more fags.

  The sky is tangled and wet, like an old man’s beard. The rain is iced and black and up there in the clouds I can see bottles and cushions, knuckles and buttocks. Up there in the clouds I can see Lenny Snook, slumped down in his pants, nipples like bullet wounds. ‘Sometimes You Need Some Clarity,’ it says.

  First I should call Lenny.

  No, first I should go and get another beer, and then I’ll call Lenny. See how he’s doing. See what he’s been up to. See what’s going on. See what’s going on with Brenda. See what’s going on with Rosa. See what happened when she called round the other night. That’s what I should do, I should call Lenny and see what’s going on with Lenny.

  Fuck Mum and Dad and their ugly settee.

  Fuck Eleni and her dying mother.

  Fuck Kirk and his dying self.

  Fuck this weather and just lying here letting it all sink in.

  I should just call Lenny. See what Lenny’s up to.

  Just as I start dialling, the phone rings in my hand.

  ‘Hector, I’ve sorted it all out. I’ve spoken to Lapping,’ says Myers.

  ‘Who’s Lapping?’

  ‘Alfred Lapping. The collector who bought God Bolton from Saatchi.’

  ‘Ah,’ I say. There’s a flash of lightning.

  ‘Lapping’s willing to loan it out for the show.’

  ‘Why are we gonna show God Bolton?’

  ‘Because it’ll sit nicely in the alcove and it hasn’t been on public display for over two years and it’ll be a bigger draw than any self-portrait.’

  There’s a beautiful roll and then a whip-crack of thunder.

  ‘What?’ says Myers.

  ‘I didn’t say anything.’

  ‘So what do you think?’ and I can picture him on the other end of the phone, skipping around his office.

  ‘But, Joe,’ I say, ‘I’ve nearly finished the self-portrait.’

  ‘Hector, you’ve only been working on it for four days. The show opens tomorrow night. How can it be nearly finished?’

  ‘In fact I think it is finished.’

  ‘I’m coming round,’ says Myers.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ I say.

  ‘Hector, Lapping is serious about this loan. Now if you’re saying that you have the self-portrait finished and the show opens tomorrow, then I need to see it. I’m on my way round.’

  ‘Don’t do that, Joe,’ I say, but the phone is full of rain and the line goes dead.

  One doesn’t say the line dies. One says the line goes dead. Funny that.

  ‘Hector Kipling didn’t die. Hector Kipling went dead. Ladies and gentlemen, what am I bid? We start at twenty million.’

  It’s three o’clock and I’m sat at the piano. Eleni hasn’t phoned. I haven’t phoned Eleni. Nor have I phoned Mum, or Kirk, or Lenny. And nor, for that matter, have any of them phoned me. Mum’s probably got her head in the oven, Kirk’s probably dead, and Lenny’s either getting stabbed by Brenda or fucking Rosa. Or fucking Rosa and then being discovered by Brenda – and then getting stabbed. Whatever, it’s no excuse for not phoning me.

  I don’t know what Eleni’s doing. I can’t believe I haven’t tried to call her again.

  I’m playing an E flat diminished, the way Eleni taught me. I switch on the video and wind forward at random. I light another cigarette and then press Play. There’s a woman – the same woman who put the polythene bag on her head – lying on a bed, surrounded by green candles, masturbating with a ginger wig pressed between her legs.

  I pick out notes at random and somehow it seems to fit.

  The doorbell rings and somehow that fits too. It rings again.

  I run across the room, struggle with the ladders and throw a huge sheet over the painting.

  The doorbell rings again.

  I run back to the piano and pause the video.

  The doorbell rings again.

  I run over to the intercom, big strides, like a sprinter, and skid on a marble. I go flying. My head smashes against the ground and I hold onto my elbow. If I hadn’t had four beers I’d be in agony.

  The doorbell rings again; this time for a long time, on and on till it sounds like a fire drill.

  I pick up the phone and Myers’ face appears on the screen. Horrible face it is. All fat from cake and pork, big blowsy nose like a wrestler’s knuckle. ‘Hector?’ he says.

  ‘All right, Joe! All right! Stop ringing the fucking bell.’

  He steps back into the street. He doesn’t know I can see him. He puts his hands down his trousers and sorts it all out.

  I’m standing on my threshold waiting for the lift to fail. I can hear the groaning of the cables and a buzz and then a clank as the doors settle and ease apart. And here’s Joe ‘The Eyes’ Myers. Horrible face it is. One eye lower than the other two.

  ‘Right,’ he says, striding into the room, ‘I don’t have long. Where is it?’ He knocks the tip of his umbrella three times on the floor like he’s been watching My Fair Lady all afternoon.

  ‘Do you want a drink, Joe?’ I say, backing towards the kitchen.

  ‘I’ll have a beer,’ he snaps, ‘do you have a beer?’

  ‘Do you want a glass?’

  ‘No, no, I don’t have time for a glass. Where is it?’ He looks over at the big white sheet. ‘Is this it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I shout, ‘but wait till I get the beers. OK?’

  I settle myself in the kitchen, but I can see him through the hatch. Joe sits down in the armchair. He scans the white sheet as though he’s reading his obituary. After a while I weave back into the room with two cans.

  ‘Hector,’ says Myers, ‘are you drunk?’

  ‘Of course I’m drunk, Joe, of course I’m fucking drunk. What do you take me for? An invalid?’

  ‘Right then,’ says Myers, snapping open his beer, ‘let’s see it,’ and he jabs his can in the direction of the sheet so that a bit spills onto his trousers.

  I walk over to the hem of the sheet, put down my beer, light a fag. ‘Joe,’ I say, ‘Mr Myers, this might not be what you might not be – might be – might not be what you might be expecting.’

  ‘Get on with it,’ he says, taking a big swig.

  I take the corner and, calling out something that must sound like ‘Da da da da Daaa!!’, pull and run with the sheet across the room like a feisty gymnast at the opening of the Olympic Games.

  Silence.

  Myers leans back in the armchair and looks at the big black canvas with two converging red lines.

  Silence.

  I fold the white sheet over my arm.

  Silence.

  ‘What is this?’ says Myers.

  ‘It’s my—’

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ says Myers.

  ‘Well, Joe, it’s my—’

  ‘What the FUCK is this, Hector?’

  ‘That, Joe,’ I say, ‘. . . is me.’

  ‘Hector, this is dog shit.’

  ‘No, Joe, it’s something new.’

  ‘Yeah it’s some new dog shit,’ says Joe, ‘only distinguishable from old dog shit cos it’s still wet.’

  ‘No, Joe, it’s me.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘No, it’s me. What you see before you is me.’

  ‘Hector, you’re drunk out of your mind. What happened? In between me phoning and me arriving you did this?’

  ‘No, Joe,’ I say furrowing my brow, ‘this has taken me . . . days.’

  Myers puts his beer on the table and pushes himself up. ‘Right, well that settles it. I’m calling Lapping right now and getting God Bolton over there by tomorrow.’

  ‘But, Joe, Joe,’ I say, ‘this is my self-portrait.’

  ‘Hector, that is not a self-portrait. That is strange minimalist . . . discharge.’

  ‘Joe, this is not minimalist.’

  ‘Then what is it? Figurative? Impressionistic? Pre-fucking-Raphaelite?’

  The pause on the video
clicks onto play and suddenly there’s the woman with the ginger toupee between her legs.

  ‘Oh my God!’ says Myers.

  I throw down the sheet and stagger towards the screen. I hit stop. ‘It’s not porn, Joe. That’s not porn and that,’ sweeping my arm out, ‘is not minimalism.’ I feel like Peter O’Toole. ‘Far from it.’

  ‘Hector, I don’t care.’

  I move towards him like Bela Lugosi – like Peter O’Toole playing Bela Lugosi.

  ‘Back off, Hector, back off.’

  ‘You know what minimalism is, Joe?’ I scream, as he trots towards the door and then out down the stairs. ‘A true minimalist does nothing and gives it no title. Minimalism, Joe, means not even drawing attention to its non-existence. The true minimalist, Joe, doesn’t even arse himself to get born.’

  ‘Hector, you are drunk, and God Bolton is going into the alcove.’

  ‘Fine, Joe,’ I scream down the stairwell. ‘Don’t fall, Joe. I’d hate for you to fall and crack your head open on the steps. I’d hate to have to clean that up, Joe. I’d hate to have to pick up your brain with a tissue. A small tissue, Joe. A fucking baby wipe, Joe. I’d hate to spend an hour trying to find your brain with a fucking baby wipe, Joe!’

  He totters down the stairs and slams the door.

  It’s the season of hanging up and slamming doors. And crying. It’s the season of crying as well.

  I sit upside down in the armchair and pick up Joe’s beer. I drink it, spilling it down my neck and ears, and cry.

  A plane flies over, very low and loud, like it might crash into the City. But it doesn’t. I just thought for a few delightful seconds there that it might, but it didn’t. Maybe next time.

  The phone rings. It’s Lenny.

  ‘Hector, what the fuck’s going on with you?’

  I hang up. I’m hanging up, Lenny, that’s what the fuck’s going on with me. It rings again. I let it. The machine clicks on. ‘I’m sorry that I can’t crumble to the bone right now, but if you leave a massage after the tomb, I’ll crawl on your back.’

  And then it’s Lenny: ‘Fuck does all that mean? What’s going on? Have you lost it?’ There’s a pause and then a little cough. ‘I spoke to Kirk this morning and if you want to talk to someone who’s really lost it, talk to Kirk. At least he has an excuse, man. He says that the other night you said nothing and just left him. Fuck’s going on, Hector? I know you can hear all this. I don’t know if you’re listening, but I know you can hear it, so call me back, or crawl on my back, whatever. Hector, you is well out of order.’

  You is? What the fuck’s all that about? You is? He’s forty-three, he’s from Blackpool. You is?

  I’m lying on the wooden floor, looking up at the ceiling. Last year I painted the ceiling white. I had to rig up a twenty-five-foot scaffold and do it on my back with Eleni pushing me along every now and then, with the paint running down my brush and forearms, like Michelangelo, except that I wasn’t painting God. Although, in a way, I did paint God. I painted a large black spot, four foot in diameter, right above the place where Godfrey Bolton hanged himself. As I look at it now, it looks a lot like a hole. I could drag the table from the kitchen, balance the stepladder on the table, climb right up to the top, get a grip on the edges and heave myself in. So that’s what I do. What I mean is I drag the table through from the kitchen, balance the stepladder on the table, climb right to the top, but I don’t get a grip on the edges of the hole and I don’t heave myself in. Of course I don’t. Because it’s not a hole. It’s a black spot that I’ve painted on the ceiling. And so when I come to the bit where I’m trying to get a grip on the edges to heave myself in, I scratch my hands against the ceiling, lose my balance on the ladder, the ladder falls off the table, the table flips over and I drop through space and land on my back on one of the legs. It really hurts. It doesn’t matter that I’ve had four beers and most of Myers’ beer and quite a lot of the other one I took out for myself, which is actually five beers, or nearer five and a half or . . . What I’m saying is that it doesn’t matter that I’ve got practically six pints sloshing around inside me – this time it really hurts.

  I shouldn’t really be driving in this state. I woke up with a hangover. I’d only slept for about an hour. Maybe it wasn’t so much a hangover as a towering migraine of the spine where I smashed my back on the table leg. The point is I’ve been driving this car around with a dustbinful of booze inside me and now I’m trying to dump it in the Chinatown car park. I find a space and go in and out of first and reverse so many times that I might have to stop and rest my wrist.

  I don’t know if Kirk’s gonna be in but I’ve taken the risk, and if he isn’t then I’ll just sit on a bench in Soho Square and make up names for all the pigeons. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  On the way I buy a half of Jack Daniel’s and some Nurofen. Soho’s full of newsreaders and quiz-show hosts, and smells of onions and petrol. On Frith Street two chefs are fighting. One of them has a ladle.

  At first Kirk tells me just to go away. He’s got his round head out of the window, the fat of his cheeks hanging down with the force of gravity.

  Kirk’s head. The head that may kill him. To be killed by your own head. What hell there must be in that head of his. That head shouting at me to go away.

  ‘Kirk, I’ve driven all this way to see you, now come down and open the door.’

  ‘I’m busy,’ he shouts, ‘I’m working.’

  ‘So you can work with me in the room. You’ve worked with me in the room lots of times.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You used to say that it helped you to work with someone in the room – with me in the room.’

  Kirk’s head disappears, but the window stays open. Maybe he’ll throw down the keys.

  An old man called Alfie taps me on the shoulder. I know that he’s called Alfie cos Alfie’s been tapping me on the shoulder for the past five years. He never remembers from one time to the next but I do and I know he’s called Alfie cos he always says so.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ says Alfie, ‘my name’s Alfie.’

  ‘Hello, Alfie,’ I say.

  ‘Hello, sir,’ he says. He’s small and hunched. One of his eyes is blackened and I notice a raisin in his beard. ‘I was roller-skating down the Mall just now and . . . well, to cut a long story short, I was involved in a collision with Her Majesty’s Household Cavalry and one of my wheels came off – I lost one of my wheels.’ He looks down at the ground and sighs. ‘So what I’m asking is . . . I wonder if you could spare me a pound towards the cost of a new wheel.’

  ‘And where are your skates now?’ I say.

  ‘They’re in a vault in Whitehall.’

  This is fairly standard stuff for Alfie. It’s never money for a cup of tea or a fag. One time it was a quid for some banjo polish and another to buy some talc to freshen up his Arthur Schopenhauer glove puppet which had become sticky from overuse.

  ‘But, Alfie,’ I say, ‘I always give you a pound and you always go off and get pissed and then I always bump into you later in the day and you always spit at me and call me a Bolshevik cunt.’

  ‘Ah no, sir,’ he says, ‘not me, sir. You’re thinking of Alfie Bass.’

  ‘No, Alfie, not Alfie Bass, Alfie, you, Alfie whatever you’re called.’ I hand him his coin. ‘I’m subsidizing my own abuse here.’

  ‘Ah, well, sir,’ he says, smiling like a smutty wizard, ‘isn’t that the way of things?’ And off he goes, whistling ‘From A Jack To A King’ through his scabbed black lips.

  I think about Eleni. Eleni in tears. Sobbing on her mother’s dead breast.

  Suddenly Kirk’s big bunch of keys – one for every door in his life, and a novelty bronze scorpion – smashes down onto my head. It really, really fucking hurts.

  The first time I ever visited Kirk in his flat I couldn’t believe how dark it was, and then he drew back the curtains and switched on all the lights and somehow the room got darker. It’s a frightening little space. If you can call it spa
ce.

  Here’s how we met: 18 September 1997. Me and Lenny Snook are edging around the Royal Academy’s ‘Sensation’ exhibition, quiet and gutted cos we’re not in it. We join a small queue to view Marcus Harvey’s painting of Myra Hindley.

  ‘She’s a piece of cultural ornamentation, like a bowl of fruit,’ said Marcus Harvey.

  ‘Why not just hang a bucket of sewer water?’ said the Sun.

  ‘These people who are queuing to see it are as bad as Myra Hindley herself,’ said the mother of murdered Keith Bennett.

  So me and Lenny are queuing to see this thing when, suddenly, a big, burly, bearded bloke appears out of nowhere and starts smearing blue ink all over the killer’s face. There’s a small scuffle and in an attempt to wrench the painting from the wall a stout, unassuming little man is accidentally elbowed in the head by a security guard and knocked to the floor. Taking sympathy on the little fella, me and Lenny pick him up and escort him outside where we all smoke a couple of cigarettes. There’s a crowd of protesters holding placards. ‘When we said Myra Hindley should be hung,’ screams one of them, ‘we didn’t mean at the Royal Academy’ Forty minutes later we re-enter the gallery and queue up once more to get a good look at the defaced painting. Our new friend, Kirk Church, steps forward to admire Harvey’s control of the little hand and is suddenly struck on the back of the head by an egg. Five more eggs are lobbed at the painting and a second man is arrested. ‘I think it’s brilliant!’ said Winnie Johnson, mother of murdered Bennett. ‘I think what’s happened is brilliant!’ but she wasn’t talking about Kirk.

  ‘Kirk, so how are you?’

  ‘I’m having the time of my life, Hec, the time of my life.’

  He’s peering down into the grill, seeing if his cheese has started to bubble. I take off my coat and hang it on a nail. It slumps to the ground.

  ‘So,’ he says, ‘you drove all the way here?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say.

  ‘And what are you? Pissed out of your head?’

  ‘Does it show?’