The Late Hector Kipling

by David Thewlis

  Kirk stares at me for a long time and I keep very still as though the question isn’t rhetorical.

  ‘No,’ says Kirk, and peers back into the grill.

  Kirk’s cat, Bacon, pads in to see what’s going on. He already looks a bit disgusted. He looks me in the eye, shrugs, wanders over to his bowl and sniffs at his clump of mashed fish.

  Kirk turns off the grill.

  ‘What’s that,’ I say, ‘cheese on toast?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Kirk.

  Silence.

  ‘Can I take my shoes off?’ I say.

  ‘When in Japan,’ says Kirk.

  I sit down and take off my shoes. I waggle my toes.

  Silence.

  Someone outside is screaming ‘Margaret! Margaret!’ over and over.

  Silence.

  Soho silence.

  This kitchen is the scariest room in the flat. There are only three rooms in the flat but the kitchen is by far the scariest. The bathroom is scary cos it’s full of scorpions mounted behind glass, and the sink is full of scissors. The living/sitting/bedroom is scary cos that’s where Kirk keeps all his clothes and his paintings of cutlery. But the kitchen is the scariest of the three rooms, cos that’s where Kirk keeps all his cutlery. Kirk could win awards for how much cutlery he keeps in one room. First comes the cutlery drawer which is – fair enough – packed with cutlery. Then come all the other drawers which are also – a bit worrying – packed with cutlery. Then come the cupboards. The doors of the cupboards won’t close properly cos they’re so stuffed with cutlery. And then there’s the table and the draining board and the tops of cupboards and the floor. Knives, forks and spoons, wherever you look, wherever you don’t, stolen from parties, cafes, bars, restaurants, hotels, aeroplanes, home. Stolen from all over the world. From any incident which involved the use of a knife, fork or a spoon. Bread knives, butter knives, fish knives, fruit knives. Big forks, little forks, meat forks, toasting forks. Tea-spoons, soup spoons, dessert spoons, coke spoons. He’s fucking mad as a gibbon’s bum, but I love him cos he’s Kirk and he wouldn’t be Kirk if he didn’t have the scariest kitchen in London. Lenny loves him as well, and I love Lenny and Lenny loves me and Kirk loves us both, and it is – it’s love. The real thing. And Kirk wouldn’t be Kirk if he wasn’t peering into the grill pissed off with me that I’ve turned up drunk to try and make him feel a little bit better than he does about his potential, and utterly plausible, imminent death. That’s what I love about him.

  In the living room, Kirk bites into his toast. He hasn’t shaved and his whiskers have gone yellow with piccalilli. Kirk’s sat on the bed, I’m sat on the floor.

  I look at the ashtray. ‘Is that a joint?’ I say, shifting towards it.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Kirk.

  ‘May I?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  I pluck it out and light it. I offer it to Kirk but he just holds up his piccalilli toast in refusal.

  Silence.

  I take three big drags and put it out.

  Silence.

  I should have thought about all this on the way here. I did think about all this on the way here. Well, not all of it – some of it. I even practised a few sentences out loud but none of them amounted to anything more than a platitude: ‘Kirk, everything’s going to be all right, you know’, ‘Kirk, just try not to dwell upon it’, ‘Kirk, you know how much everyone thinks about you’.

  I sit here now, on Kirk’s blue wooden floor, looking quite calm, but in my head there’re a trillion molecules thrashing it out, each thinking they know best; beating themselves against the folds of my brain, and my brain – or the little fella sat on top of my brain – or perhaps it’s a woman – asking all these molecules to keep it down a bit, and don’t they know that people are trying to get some sleep? My belly’s a snowball, my heart’s filled with cabbage and my bowels are burning up on reentry. I should have thought about all this. I did think about all this, I think. I thought I did. But then maybe it wasn’t this; maybe it was something else. Yes, in fact now I think about it, I think I was thinking about something else.

  There’s so much to say, but somehow that first sentence seems crucial. Why can’t I be one of those carefree people? One of those passionate people? The sort of person who seems to enjoy their own personality? Why do I feel like my head’s filled with civil servants sat at little black tables, reading, signing, stamping, forwarding and filing every fucking thought?

  I go off looking for that first sentence. I’ll find it if it kills me.

  Meanwhile the joint’s barged into my brain and started throwing chairs around.

  ‘How’s the toast?’ I say.

  And Kirk says, ‘Good.’

  ‘Piccalilli,’ I say.

  ‘Heinz,’ says Kirk.

  Bacon leaps up onto the window ledge and stares down an earwig. I ponder Bacon’s beautiful green eyes. Indignant, incredulous. Infinitely patient. We could all learn a thing or two from Bacon.

  ‘Kirk,’ I say, ‘I’m really sorry if I’m not handling all this very well. I mean, y’know, we never did this at school.’

  ‘Nor did I,’ says Kirk and licks the crumbs off his plate.

  ‘Kirk, I’m sorry. All this has sent me on a bit of a funny one.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Kirk.

  ‘I feel . . . I feel . . . well, I don’t know, Kirk, I don’t know what I feel, it’s . . . it’s . . .’

  ‘Hector,’ says Kirk, ‘are we just gonna talk about you?’

  ‘No!’ I squeak, appalled. ‘We’re not gonna talk about me at all. This is not about me. It’s about you. We’re gonna talk about you.’

  ‘Yeah?’ says Kirk and lights up the joint. ‘So what are we gonna say about me?’

  ‘Well . . .’ I say, and panic. The molecules overpower the civil servants and stamp on their specs. The little man – or woman – sat on top of my brain has fallen off and got themselves wedged somewhere in my neck. There’re also six and a half thousand old teeth bouncing around inside my skull, against the bone. ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Well what, Hector? Well what?’

  The time has come.

  ‘Well, I don’t know, Kirk, what if you die? How does that make you feel?’

  There, I said it. It’s about the only thing there is to say and I can’t believe it’s taken this long to squeeze it out. Kirk appreciates it. Kirk’s no fool. Kirk lies back on the bed and puts out the joint in what’s left of the piccalilli. There’s a small hiss and a plume of yellow smoke.

  Silence.

  Upstairs someone is learning the penny whistle.

  Next door they’re watching a Tarzan movie, by the sound of things.

  I can hear Bacon’s claws on the windowsill.

  Silence.

  ‘It makes me feel useless,’ says Kirk, ‘it makes me feel that I’ve meant nothing at all.’

  I nod. Silence. ‘But you’re not useless, Kirk.’ Silence. Bacon’s claws and the blink of the earwig.

  ‘It makes me wonder whether I was ever meant to mean anything.’

  I nod. A slow nod. Hardly a nod at all. ‘I know, Kirk, I know. I can imagine.’

  ‘I fade off to sleep at night and imagine it may be for the last time. I think about whether that’s a sad thing or a matter of general indifference.’

  ‘It’s a sad thing, Kirk.’

  ‘I think about my paintings . . . and I feel like lugging them all down to the river and throwing them in. And then I think why bother?’

  I raise my eyebrows, rather beautifully, I imagine.

  ‘Why dignify them with such ceremony?’ he says.

  Kirk puts his hands over his eyes and embarks upon a sequence of tiny noises. I think he’s crying. He might not be crying, he might be laughing. I doubt it, given what’s just been said, but what the fuck do I know? Perhaps he’s just taking the piss. What should I say? Should I say nothing? If I say nothing then what should I not say? And if I say something?

  ‘Kirk,’ I say, ‘don’t you dare throw you
r paintings into the river.’

  The next thing I know Kirk’s tossed a teaspoon at me and it hits me on the nose.

  ‘Kiiirrrk,’ I whine, ‘why d’you do that?’

  He sits up and I can hardly see his eyes for water. Well, that settles it: he’s crying.

  You know what? I’m sick of all this crying. Sick of everybody, every fucker, just fucking crying all the time. Whatever happened to repression? That’s what I’d like to know. Whatever happened to bottling it all up?

  ‘Hector!’ he shouts. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  I freeze. I’m not used to Kirk shouting at me, and I’m not used to Kirk asking me what’s the matter with me. It’s a hell of a question – a hell of an answer.

  ‘Nothing’s the matter with me, Kirk. What do you mean?’

  ‘Why have you come round here?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Yes, you don’t know?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What, yes you do know?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘So what the fuck’s going on with you?’ shouts Kirk, and Bacon makes a swipe at the earwig. Gets it first time. Gone.

  ‘Eleni’s mother’s dead!’ I shout, and then clear my throat.

  ‘What?’ says Kirk.

  ‘Sofia, Eleni’s mother, she’s dead.’

  ‘She’s dead?’

  I say the next bit much more quietly. Almost a whisper. ‘Well, she’s not dead, I mean . . . she’s not dead. I mean she’s dying. Really dying. May very well die. In fact she might as well be dead. She’s lost consciousness, is what I mean . . . and . . . may never regain it . . . so . . .’

  Kirk looks at me for a long time, much longer than friends usually look at each other without saying anything. I know that he’s looking at me and therefore I don’t look at him. In the silence I work out what he’s going to say. He’s either going to say, ‘Hector, I’m so sorry, that’s tragic, come here, let me hug you.’ Or he’s going to say, ‘Hector, do you want Eleni’s mother to die?’

  He’s still staring at me. I light a fag.

  ‘You’ve seen Lenny’s billboard, haven’t you?’

  I didn’t expect him to say that.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘You’ve seen Lenny’s billboard, his water ad.’

  I stand up. ‘Oh, it’s for water, is it?’

  Kirk leans back. ‘What did you think it was for?’

  ‘I don’t know’ I hold up my hands. ‘Tampons?’

  Kirk shrugs and starts to finger his temple.

  ‘So where did you see it?’ I ask.

  ‘I haven’t seen it, Lenny told me about it.’

  I can’t believe it. I cannot fucking believe it. ‘He told you about it? When?’

  ‘The other night. The night he stayed the night.’

  ‘And why hasn’t he told me?’

  ‘I don’t know, Hec.’

  ‘And has he told you what he’s doing for the Prize?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I turn on the spot and try to pace the room. I don’t get very far. ‘So what is it?

  ‘Well, it’s the coffin–pram thing – Domesticated Goose Chase – and the limo filled with blood and the sausage sentry box.’

  ‘I know all that. I know he’s showing all that, but he’s doing something new. Has he told you about this new thing, is what I’m asking? This settee thing, is what I’m asking.’

  ‘Yes, he’s told me about that as well.’

  ‘And why hasn’t he told me?’

  Silence.

  I lie down on my back, wrists towards Jupiter.

  ‘He says he doesn’t want to.’

  I sit up. Fuck Jupiter. ‘Oh, does he? He doesn’t want to? Why doesn’t he want to?’

  Kirk sits up and lights a cigarette. I pull my coat over with my foot, reach into the pocket, pull out the bottle and take a swig of the whiskey.

  ‘Hector, please don’t drink any more.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he want to tell me?’

  ‘Hector, you’re going to pass out. Put the bottle away.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he want to tell me?’ I screw the top back onto the bottle.

  ‘Cos he says that if he tells you, you’ll start interfering.’

  ‘Interfering?’

  ‘That you’ll start making suggestions.’

  ‘Suggestions?’ I unscrew the cap.

  ‘And then you’ll start claiming that it was your idea all along.’

  ‘What?’ I take another swig.

  ‘He just wants to do it alone so that you can’t accuse him of anything.’

  ‘Is this what he said?’

  ‘More or less. Hector, put the bottle away.’

  My mobile rings. It’s Bianca.

  ‘Hector, you missed your appointment.’

  I nearly crush the hand-piece in my fist. ‘Shit! Is it Monday?’

  ‘What?’ says Kirk.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say.

  ‘It’s every Monday, Hector,’ says Bianca.

  ‘But is it Monday now?’

  ‘Yes, Hector.’ She sounds a little bit cross and a little bit gentle. A little bit tired and a little bit intrigued.

  ‘And what time is it.’

  ‘It’s six o’clock. Your appointment was at five twenty.’

  ‘Then I’ve still got ten minutes.’

  ‘But where are you?’

  ‘On the phone. We’ll do it on the phone.’

  I ask Kirk if I can use the toilet and even though I don’t need to go I pull down my trousers and sit on the toilet. It feels good talking to Bianca like this, with my trousers pulled down – sitting on the toilet.

  I’m driving up to Lenny’s place.

  No one thought it was a good idea. Kirk tried to hide my car keys and Bianca begged me to just go to bed and see her first thing in the morning. Bianca thought that my main objection to Lenny’s billboard was a question of scale. She compared Rosa Flood to a landmine and Eleni’s mother to heartburn. I asked her what she meant by this and she said that sadness is sometimes little more than trapped wind and had I made a serious attempt to burp myself? (I don’t think Bianca’s very good. I’m paying her fifty pounds a session to flounder. I’m paying her a quid a minute just to switch off the lights and do all her stabbing in the dark.)

  I turn onto Delancey and get onto Parkway.

  I think about calling him before I get there and take out my phone. Tiny winking envelope. I press all the buttons I’ve learned to press and pick up the message. It’s from Eleni.

  ‘Hector? Hector? I don’t know why I call your name, I know you can’t hear me. But it is nice to call your name anyway. It’s Eleni. Why haven’t you called me? It’s Monday, about half-past six your time – maybe you’re coming back from Bianca. I left a message last night, but here they tell me that no one has called for me. My mother is very sick, Hector. I think I must stay. I will stay. My father is poorly, as you would say. Poorly with worry. I know that you can’t come out yet. I know that you have your show tomorrow. I am ringing to say good luck with the show tomorrow. I hope that you are not cross with me. I am not cross with you, by the way. Please call me, please. I love you. I’ll try to call you at the flat. I love you . . . bye . . . bye . . .’

  And the line goes dead.

  So dead.

  My skull fills up like an old porcelain cistern.

  I love Eleni. I love Eleni Marianos.

  I pull up and park outside Lenny’s house. Perhaps Brenda’s back and she’s holding his head down in the dishwater. Perhaps he’s masturbating over a photo of Walt Disney. Perhaps Rosa Flood’s crayoning pentagrams onto the gusset of her knickers and quoting Aleister Crowley with a mouthful of newborn locusts. Who knows what the hell’s going on in there. Perhaps I should call him – let him know I’m here. No. Fuck calling him. Why let him know I’m here? I’ll just walk up to his shiny green door and ring the fucking bell. Then he’ll know I�
��m here.

  I walk up to his shiny green door and ring the fucking bell. His camera clicks on and Lenny says, ‘Yes?’

  I say, ‘What do you mean, “Yes?”, you can see who it is, it’s me.’

  The lock clicks and the door gives way.

  As I climb the stairs I can hear Schubert’s Symphony Number Five blasting out from Lenny’s Bang and fucking Olufsen. I pull out the bottle and take a swig. I hear Lenny shout, ‘I’m on the top floor,’ as though that’s some kind of achievement.

  At the top of the first landing there’s an enormous framed photograph of Lenny with David Hockney. They’re both stood somewhere in the Hollywood hills with a couple of silly dachshunds and two takeaway tortillas.

  ‘Right at the top. All the way to the top, man,’ shouts Lenny. ‘I’m coming,’ I shout, struggling for breath.

  The house smells of jasmine and ratatouille. I can see one of Brenda’s big bowls on the kitchen table and one of her vases filled with hyacinths.

  I light a fag. ‘I’m coming, Len,’ I shout.

  On the second landing there’s a Lennon lithograph of Yoko snuggling into a cosy white bag. The Schubert’s making it all sound as though life’s just fine. Like life’s all about eating Brie-and-cornichon baguettes on Hampstead Heath and feeling a bit sad cos you’ve noticed a crisp bag blowing across the lily pond.

  Lenny’s alone in the top room. He’s sat at his desk surrounded by something like thirty or forty tealights. He’s drawing a line with a ruler. There’s a Fiona Rae on one wall and on another there’s a photo of Lenny, Marc Quinn and Gavin Turk with their arms wrapped around Gary Kemp. Lenny swivels round in his seat. ‘Mr Kipling,’ he says, in that stupid way he’s been saying for seventeen years, like he can’t get over that I’ve got the same name as someone who makes cheap little cakes.

  ‘Mr Snook,’ I say and plonk myself down in his armchair. I sit very still. Looking around. There’s a huge white settee in the room.

  Lenny moved down to London in 1981 to attend the Chelsea School of Art. From there he moved on to Goldsmiths. I also moved down to London in 1981.I spent three years at Camberwell School of Art. From there I moved to the Slade. We had every reason to go our separate ways. But we didn’t. We didn’t go our separate ways. We saw each other three or four times a week and eventually shared a flat together. The flat was khaki and unseasonably damp and smelled of baked tomatoes. We shared it with a percussionist called Randolph Rosenberg who has since lost a leg and taken up a career in coin magic.