‘You don’t scare me,’ I say, glancing at Mum’s sleeping face. ‘You think you scare me? You don’t scare me.’
‘You don’t believe me?’ whispers Monger. ‘You think I’m not up to it? Look at your rat of a dog. You think I’m joking? You think my father committed suicide? You think that my father possessed the mathematical agility to construct a knot like that? Think about it, Hector. You think my father possessed the industry to persevere with such a knot? Hell, he could have just swallowed pills if he was going to do it himself. Oh yes. Oh most certainly yes, Mr Kipling, a noose like that takes craft. Or should I say art? You go to the police, Hector, and I will kill you slower than anyone has ever been killed before. I will go into The Guinness Book of World Records with how slowly I will kill you.’
Silence.
There is nothing to say. I mean, really, what can you say to someone when they announce something like that?
15
BOX STREET, BOW, LONDON
On the train back the next day I saw off the morning’s hangover with endless vodkas. I tried to read the papers but I’d forgotten how to read. I tore every picture to pulp with a sharp blue biro. No one was spared. England smashed past the window. Sheep on its hills. Dogs in all its filthy alleys. Factories and fields. Oblivion. Wet, green, black and brick-red oblivion.
The morning had been a kind of midnight. Hopeless misery as me and Mum prepared a breakfast that neither of us could face; and prepared is hardly the word. Mum kept leaning against the washing machine baring her teeth and clenching her eyes. Now and then she stuck out her tongue like a Maori and stared straight through me, hands up in the air, fingers spread. My own behaviour was not much better. As the beans came to the boil I carried the pan through to the lounge and poured them into the fish tank. Now there was a death for you. Death by hot beans. Not the sort of thing you see every day.
Idea For a Piece: A ton of hot baked beans suspended in a glass box high above the gallery floor. The show runs six days a week for two months. At a random hour on any one of twelve unspecified days the beans spill down onto the punters’ heads. Call it You Pays Your Money, You Takes Your Chances II.
There was no way I could justify my return to London without telling Mum about Sofia and Kirk. So tell her I did. And what a charming half-hour that was. Mum plucked away at her tights till there were more holes than tight. Events were reported in a voice about two thousand octaves higher than my normal register – which, by the way, is rather deep; much deeper than you might expect from a man of my sensitivity.
‘Threes,’ said Mum.
‘Threes?’ I said.
‘Deaths come in threes.’
‘Mum,’ I said, and pulled off a little snore, ‘come on. You know that’s just an old wives’ tale.’
‘Well, that’s just what I am,’ she scowled, ’an old wife!’ She took off her slippers and hurled them at the window.
Oh my God. What if she’s going the way of Aunty Pat? The last thing Pat did, before they came round with the buckled jacket, was order a taxi. She put all her stuff into the boot: old letters, photographs, bed sheets, toiletries, a change of clothing and a jar of sugared almonds.
‘Where to, love?’ said the driver.
‘1922,’ said Aunty Pat, ‘and can we stop at an off-licence on the way?'
Mum sat back in her chair and fell asleep. I woke her up when the cab arrived and she went all soppy, hooping her arms around my neck and telling me to be careful, as though I were Jason about to tackle the clashing rocks. Which, in a way, I suppose I was.
‘Now you go and find Eleni,’ she said. ‘Hug her half to death,’ (curious choice of phrase), ‘tell her I’m thinking about her. And hug Kirk’s mum from me. I’ve never met her, but just tell her that your mum sends her a hug. And Lenny - hug Lenny for me.’
‘I will, Mum,’ I said, though that seemed like an awful lot of hugely implausible hugs. And look, Mum, look . . .’ and I gave her the biggest hug I’ve ever given her. The biggest hug any son has ever given any mum, ever.
As the train approached Euston I thought about throwing myself out of the door. But just as we passed the Roundhouse, we slowed down suddenly and the worst that could have happened was a sprained ankle. And I didn’t want that. Not on top of everything else.
Having sat here on top of the stepladders for five hours, doing nothing, thinking nothing, being nothing, I think it’s safe to say that my brain is in shock. It’s a curious phenomenon, one’s brain being in shock. It feels like your entire soul has queued for weeks to find a space near your eye sockets. There are scraps of soul behind the nose, at the back of the throat, marauding across the tongue and buried deep within the ears. But for the most part the finest seats are around the eyes. At times like these all you can do is breathe, and swallow now and then. Your humanity is reduced to involuntary spasms. I think you could say that I’m in a bad way. Sat atop these ladders, snapping brushes, burning money, whistling ‘Misty’, chewing on old cherries that should have been thrown out a fortnight ago.
I climb down from the ladder and push it over onto the wooden floor, relishing the sound. A sound that makes sense. I walk into the kitchen and smash a few things. I visit the bedroom drawers and rip up a few things. I lean against a leg of Eleni’s piano and smoke until my tongue is hot. And then I put my face into my hands and laugh like a lunatic in bloom, which is fine. There’s something uniquely gratifying about putting your face into your hands and laughing like a lunatic in bloom.
The phone rings. I pick it up. It’s Myers. I put it down. Easy. I’d like to put him down.
I’m going to call Eleni. Any moment now, I’m going to call Eleni. I love Eleni. Eleni is the only woman I have ever loved. The only human being for whom I would hurl my body upon the blast of a grenade (I acknowledge that such an eventuality is hypothetical and ultimately unlikely, but it’s the principle that counts).
The phone rings again. Lenny’s prosaic message, and then: ’Hector, Joe Myers here. Was that you just now? Did you hang up on me? I’ve been leaving messages for days and days, Hector. I spoke to Lenny Snook and erm .. . well, he told me that you had some problems back home. Erm . . . well, listen, I don’t want to bother you if you’ve got a lot of stuff on your proverbial plate but I’ve got Alfred Lapping from the Doodlebug breathing down my neck and, well, listen . . . Lenny intimated that you might have some information regarding what happened at the show last Tuesday, and so on. I mean, regarding the identity of the assailant. He seemed to think that you might have spoken to him. So erm ... Anyway, what I’ve done is, I’ve given the police your phone number and address. I hope that’s all right. It’s just that Lapping needs to make an insurance claim so . . . Well, listen, Hector, just give me a call. It’s Joe Myers and—’
Bleep.
I spend the next hour stood on my head. Very enjoyable. I wake up with bleeding feet, having toppled over at some point and smashed straight through the glass coffee table. I wrap them in towels and pluck away at my left eyebrow. Ten more hairs and it will be completely gone.
You know what I can’t bear? I can’t bear the indifference. Or is it the disappointment I can’t bear? I’d expected so much more than this. I mean I’ve cried for Kirk, I’ve cried for Sofia; endless, endless hours of unabandoned sobbing. But eventually the sobbing abates and then you’re met with a baffling lull. An indefinable, hollow stoicism that you learn, in time – in not very much time – to refer to as acceptance. And before you know it, it’s as though nothing has happened. There persists an all-pervading sense of incredulity, but this can hardly be logged as an emotion. In fact quite the opposite. In the midst of this open-mouthed disbelief, emotion is found wanting. You wonder why you’re not tearing out your veins at their source, but really you know. Ultimately you know the answer to this: it’s because, really – really, deep down, deep as it gets – you don’t really care. Not really. Not like you’re supposed to care. Not like people used to care.
The doorbell rings. I
ease open one of the loading doors and look down. There’s a police car in the street. The doorbell rings again, a copper looks up and sees me there, standing in the open loading doors looking down.
‘Go away!’ I mouth, waving my hands.
‘Mr Kipling?’ shouts the copper, his head tilted so far back that his cap falls off.
I raise my voice a little. ‘I don’t know anything! If you’re here to ask me if I know something then the answer’s no. I don’t know anything about anything, no matter what you’ve been told.’
‘It’s about the assault on your painting, Mr Kipling,’ says the copper, his hand on his radio.
‘Go away!’ I shout, scanning the street for any sign of Monger. ‘Please go away. I don’t know. I have no information to give you. Please, please, I’m very busy.’
‘Just a few questions,’ says the policeman.
‘No!’ I scream. ‘No questions. Now fuck off!’
I close the door and take a step back. One step hardly seems enough, so I take a few more. I take so many steps back that I end up by the front door. What I should really do is keep going. I should wait for the police to drive away and then keep on stepping back. I should be outside. I should be walking the streets, not pacing this room. In the street there are certain laws by which I must abide. In here there are none. In here anything seems possible. In here the most heinous activities might pass unprosecuted. It distresses me to discover myself thinking in such terms. But what can I do? How can I not? The brain is not playful. Not really. The brain is committed to a rigid system with which no other organ can compete. The brain has its agenda and colludes with the fingers to see that demands are met. Eyes, on a leash. Liver, fuelled. Heart, whipped. Cock, primed. I should be outside. I should definitely make my way out into the street.
It looks like Lenny’s settee might be finished. He’s fitted a new door to the base and painted it red with ’206’ in black on it – the number of his childhood house. He’s built up a hidden wedge beneath the supporting arm so that the whole thing stands on its end, erect, seven feet high. The window, the curtains, the follicles, the slapped-on coat of varnish. Huge fleshy settee. Who lives in a house like this? I walk over and pause before the door, my fingers on the handle. The whole thing stands and falls on what is behind this door. My love for Lenny depends on what happens next.
I open the door.
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
Just the hollow shell of an expurgated settee.
I step inside and close the door behind me.
It’s a peculiar feeling, stood here inside this settee. The settee that put my dad in hospital, the settee that has driven my mother to the edge of sanity. The settee bought and delivered by a man who has threatened to kill me.
I slump down in one corner and gaze at the light creeping in through the window. I might just love it in here. There is no reason to leave. I close my eyes and dive. I close my eyes and examine every nook. Immaculate silence. Elegantly sightless. Oh yes. I gaze out into the wilderness. Creamy black. I focus on a solitary molecule and step inside. Inside it is warm, in a small kind of way. Small warmth. My brain beats. I don’t want to admit it. It’s the last thing I want to admit. But you know what, Lenny? Fuck, I’ll tell you what, Lenny: I think it’s a masterpiece.
I’m awoken by the phone. The machine clicks on and then clicks off again. Eleni. It must have been Eleni. Or Rosa, it might have been Rosa. Or Mum, or Monger. Any of them. Anyone else would have left a message. I turn over, push my shoulder blades against the door, and stretch out my legs into the recess of the backrest. This is where I live now.
I spent the first six years of my life overlooking a busy road and so am accustomed to heavy traffic. In fact I would go so far as to say that I am inordinately fond of the rumble of passing engines. Maybe these sounds, at an early age, made their way into my dreams, and never woke me. It’s everything else that wakes me. The smallest of sounds may wake me. I am often woken by my own breath, for example. By the dripping of a tap, or the yawning of some buried pipe. The hum of life wakes me. The opening of a door wakes me. The sound of voices wakes me. The sound of one of my best friends giggling with some girl, when my other best friend has just died, wakes me. The sound of boots on wood and drunken shushes wakes me.
‘What are you doing?’ I hear him whisper. ‘Come in, for fuck’s sake what’s the big deal?’
‘I should go,’ whispers Rosa, ’this whole thing is so fucked.’
‘Come in!’
‘No, I wanna go. Let me go!’ And I hear a brief scuffle. I hear two bodies in opposition. Her heels sliding across the boards, a punch, a squeal, two voices laughing and then her arse down on the floor. One of them sneezes. Her buttocks sliding across the polished pine. Black tights snagged on a nail. Bracelets and boots. The voices getting louder in their attempts to keep it down.
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s in Blackpool.’
‘How do you know he won’t come back?’
‘Because he won’t. Because he’d have told me if he was coming back.’
‘I should phone him.’
‘Yeah, go on, do that. Phone him.’
‘Lenny, I don’t think I should be here. I don’t know what I’m doing here.’
‘You’re doing this,’ I hear Lenny say, and then ... silence.
To Rosa’s credit I can hear her heels scuffing around and then a lunge and then a slap. To her discredit the slap seems to make her laugh and then silence once more.
This silence is the worst of all. Of all silences mentioned heretofore, this silence is the worst of all.
‘Hey,’ squeals Rosa, ‘you put a door on the bottom of the couch!’
‘Yeah,’ says Lenny, like he’s split the fucking atom.
‘Why’d you put a door on it? That looks kinda dumb.’
‘Why’s it dumb?’ says Lenny, a little perturbed. I’m tempted to step out and answer at length.
‘I don’t know. I mean the whole thing looks like skin, like with all the hairs and stuff, but then it’s got a fucking window and a door, man, I dunno, I just don’t get what it’s supposed to be.’
‘It’s whatever you want it to be.’
‘Right, yeah, that’s the bromide of the cop-out. What do you want it to be? That should be the point.’ What a girl.
‘I want it to engage you in a dialogue about home and soul. It’s a kind of exoskeletal sanctum sanctorum. A suburban carapace.’
‘A what?’ sniggers Rosa.
‘A parody of domestic synergy.’
‘But it’s just basically, fucking ugly.’
‘Ah,’ whispers Lenny, and then, ‘the ugly maybe beautiful, the pretty, never.’
‘I’ve heard that before.’
‘Paul Gauguin.’
It was difficult enough holding down the puke after all that suburban carapace crap, but now my entire upper body, and a good half of the lower, is consumed by foaming bile.
‘Look,’ continues Lenny, ‘I’ll show you.’
In the time between realizing that he is about to open the door, and the door actually opening, my eyes dart about in their sockets like giddy bingo balls, looking for a place to hide, as though I were the size of a fly and such a thing might just be possible.
And suddenly, there I am, cowering in the one corner of this one-cornered atrocity, my bloody feet wrapped in bloody towels, my bloody scalp, shoulders, chest and back, and every other bloody part, cracked and blistered and swollen and bruised, exposed and illuminated by the dying light of the East End sun.
‘Evening,’ I say, doffing a hat I wish I had.
Rosa in shock.
Lenny in shock.
But neither of them in anywhere close to the kind of shock that I’m in.
‘I’d ask you in,' I say, ’but I’ve got nothing to offer you.’
‘Hector!’ says Rosa.
‘Nothing at all, I’m afraid.’
‘Hector,’ says Lenny, one part accusat
ory, two parts accused, ‘you’re back.’
‘Oh yes,’ I say, shifting not one muscle, ‘I’m back. Hi, Rosa.’
‘Hi.’ There’s a new expression on her face. Fuck, is there no end to this girl’s talents?
I wink and return my attention to Lenny. T expect your next question is what the fuck am I doing in here.’
‘Er ...’
He’s wearing a long magnolia mackintosh, a plum baseball cap and a pink checked shirt that looks unnervingly like gingham.
‘Well, I’ll tell you what I’m doing in here ...’ and I start to cry. I cry and cry and cry. Of course I do. What better way to combat his ignorant levity? What better way to stab him in the heart, other than actually stabbing him in the heart? Which remains an option.
‘Hector, Hector,’ coos Rosa, kneeling down and cradling my head in her lap. ’Angel, my angel,’ and she places her palm upon my brow. Her soothing palm, save for her nails and the kick of her rings. I’m too confused to stop crying. If I stop crying I’m gonna have to start talking. But talking is out of the question. There is nothing to say. All I have to express is being expressed right now; sobbing into Rosa’s lap, her fingers across my scalp, Lenny silenced and removed from the centre of that thing we call attention.
‘How’s your dad?’ says Lenny, attempting to drum up some tears of his own.
‘Oh, you know,’ I manage to sniffle, ’really not well. I believe the word is moribund.’
‘Oh God,’ whispers Lenny and puts his hand to his chest. ‘Oh God, Hec, I’m sorry.’
Why does he have to be so fucking nice?
I raise myself up on one elbow and pursue the matter: ‘All the other blokes on the ward are packing their cases to go home and Dad . . . well . . .’ I drag my forearm across my nose, ‘he’s . . .’ long pause whilst Rosa plants a hundred kisses on my cheeks and ears, ‘I don’t know, Lenny . . . what can I say . . . he’s just not doing well, that’s all I can say . . . in answer to your question.’ I bow my head, lower my eyes and then, at last, close them.
The Late Hector Kipling Page 28