‘What the fuck are you saying?’ says Lenny, saying something at last.
‘I’m saying that you came through that door, last night, giggling your tits off. Meanwhile Kirk’s in some fridge with a little brown luggage label tied to his toe, that’s what I’m saying. I’m simply saying that life’s allowed to go on.’ I pause and smile. Nice one. ‘I’m saying that it makes us all feel special.’ My smile broadens into teeth. ‘A little more important, a little more attractive.’
Silence.
Fat walloping silence.
They’re both staring at me. Agog. Beautifully agog. I see no reason not to go on.
‘I’m saying that we should all just be honest about this. I’m saying that we should forgo the pantomime . . .’
‘Pantomime?’ says Lenny, sitting forward, fingers forming fists.
‘. . . forgo the pantomime and come right out with it. Well, listen,’ I say, and rise to my feet with my hands in the air, ‘I’ll be the first one to voice it. I’ll be the instigator of the truth. I’ll say it right now, once and for all, for better or worse, come rain or shine, in sickness and in health; I’ll say it right now, hand on my heart. Here goes . . .’
‘Hector,’ says Rosa, as though she might leap up and soothe me. She doesn’t. She just sits there and says it again. ‘Hector,’ she says. But it’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough.
‘Shut it!’ I say. ‘Not now. I’m about to say it. I am about to speak the truth. For once in my life I am about to speak the truth. Here goes. Here goes . . .’
I spread my feet and arms into a small star shape. I tilt back my head to expose my throat and then: ‘I’m glad! I am glad. So glad and so fucking happy. So glad and happy that Kirk Church, one of my best friends, is dead. Glad that he’s gone. Glad that Sofia is dead. Glad that we’re all dying. Glad that we all can. Glad that we must. Glad that we should. Glad that that’s the way of things. Glad that you’re both looking at me like I just took a Stanley knife to the throat of a baby. Glad! Glad, glad, glad!! Fucking happy. So totally fucking happy! So . . . so, so much . . .’ I’m losing the thread, come on now, Hec, concentrate, ‘I am a monster!’ I yell, scaring myself, ‘I am the most perfect of monsters. Kirk’s dead!’ I scream, and then: ‘Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!’
Ho, ho, ho. The look on their faces. You wouldn’t need a knife to cut the atmosphere, you could slice it in two with the foot of an elephant. This is living. This is it! This is fucking it! My God! What ecstasy! What immaculate fucking rapture!
And I’m not finished yet: ‘Eleni’s mother is dead. Ha! My father is on his deathbed. Ha! And if you two collapsed right now, right here, in front of me, then you know what? Ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ah ah ah haha hhah ha ha ha!!!’ I begin to spin around the room like some coked-up dervish. ‘Ha ha ha a ha ggghg aha gha hhaaa hgh haaggggggh!!!!! Ha hha ha hahahhhhhggggh!’
After a few botched tackles, Lenny finally hits home and wrestles me to the ground. I manage to plant a small fist on the surface of his scalp but he counters with a smarting slap to my cheek. I pull away and stagger to my feet. Rosa comes in low and blasts me up against the wall. ‘Thief!’ I scream. ‘Fucking thief!’ I scream.
‘What?’ yells Lenny. ‘You talking to me?’
‘Yeah,’ I scream, really scream, ‘I’m talking to you, you fucking pickpocket, you fucking sneak thief fucking grave-robber. What else do you want from me? Take it all! Steal the lot. If I jumped out of that window right now, you’d jump out after me, and still make it to the ground before me.’ My eyes are nothing but hot salt.
‘What the fuck are you talking about, Hector?’ He slaps me again.
Rosa’s got her fingers around my throat and she’s squeezing me blue. Which, given the circumstances, seems a bit unnecessary. What a girl!
‘Go on! Come on!’ I croak, ‘Come on you vicious, parasitic cunts, kill me. Come on, do it!’ I take a deep breath and then: ‘Kiiillllllll meeeeeeeeee!!’
Lenny pushes Rosa away. She falls back against the settee and springs forward on her hands and knees, eyes like absinthe, hissing like a cat, which scares me a bit. Lenny takes my head in his long, soft hands, and dashes my skull against the skirting board.
Silence.
Black. Or white. I can’t remember.
But silence.
Perfect.
Sublime.
I remember that.
*
Idea For a Piece: A grave. A real grave. My grave. A little mound of earth and grass in the middle of the National Gallery. A headstone, a candle, a flower. Something tasteful. An orchid, a lily, or even a poppy. The Late Hector Kipling.
17
Monger’s not dressed like Monger, and I’m not dressed like me. He’s wearing a hooded parka and combat boots. The hood’s up and his gloved hands are thrust deep into his pockets. I’m still in my dressing gown. Hood down. Classic Robe. He’s turning onto Lackerty Road. I’m on the corner of Baxter and Platt. As soon as he’s out of sight I set off in pursuit, months of gum and grease on the soles of my bleeding feet. It’s been almost an hour now, but I think I’ve finally tracked him down. He’s going into his pocket for keys. He’s struggling with the lock. Hood pulled back. Fag in his lips, making him squint. The door opens and in he goes, slamming it behind him.
It was the police who woke me up. Lenny and Rosa were standing off to one side, the image of innocence, whilst a young constable administered to me with smelling salts. Apparently my exhortations had been so loud and maniacal that a neighbour had seen fit to call in the cops. I made a statement, referring to my recent bereavements and made no mention of Lenny’s assault. The constable offered his sympathy and even held my hand as I sipped a glass of hot ginger tea. All the while Lenny and Rosa presided over the scene, silent, dispassionate, like American fucking Gothic.
Soon after the police left Lenny and Rosa were helping each other into their coats, shamed by my hysterics, shameless in their togetherness.
‘We’re going out,’ said Lenny.
‘Where are you going?’ I asked.
‘I just need to get out of here for a while,’ said Rosa, and off they went.
I flung open the loading doors and watched them as they took off down the street. They weren’t holding hands, but it looked like they might. Once they rounded the corner they would fall into each other’s arms and kiss like there were a million tomorrows. That’s why I screamed. ‘I’ll kill you both! I will fucking kill you both! You think I won’t kill you? Well, let me tell you this: I will fucking kill you!’
Then I saw the cop car, still parked there on the kerb, the young constable looking at me, mumbling into his radio.
‘Thank you,’ I called to him and waved, suddenly calm. ‘Thanks for your help. Thank you.’
And that’s when I spotted Monger, skulking in some doorway, spotting the cop, lighting a fag and making off towards the corner.
Great. Oh great. Oh just so fucking superbly fucking great.
I’m sat here, in the caff opposite Monger’s flat, writing a letter to Eleni. There’s a pile of eleven crumpled pages at my feet, and I’m not having much luck with the twelfth:
Dear Eleni,
I feel the need to write to you since I believe that you are owed some kind of explanation as to what was going on the other night. That girl in the bath was not . . .
Was not . . . Was not . . . er . . .
Was not what? Not a girl? Not in the bath? Not human? Not important? I stab at the page with my pen and screw it up like the rest. My coffee arrives and I begin to count the bubbles. I think of Kirk and how he used to blow on his pint. I take a sip, scald my lip, and think of Sofia. And then Eleni. My poor poor Eleni. My angel Eleni. My one true . . . Oh fuck, what a load of bollocks.
I flood my coffee with sugar and examine the spoon. I gaze at my face in the back of it and think of Kirk. But what do I think? Do I think of his face? The way he moved? His choice of clothes? The things he said? The way his eyes crinkled up when he . . . I don’t
know. All I can say is that I think of Kirk. Fat lot of good it is to Kirk, all this thinking of him. They say that a soul is sustained in the memories of those they leave behind. But what kind of a life is that? A life of yesterdays. A life of not actually being there. No new stories, no new jokes. No prospects, no hope. In other words: Death. I place the spoon on the saucer and watch it dry. It doesn’t take long.
My body, it seems, is no longer my own. My brain and bones are beset by parasites, and my bowels are being devoured by something huge and ticklish; six furry legs, two million eyes, needle-sharp teeth and an outer shell of blister and scab. I shall soon be hollow. And once I’m hollow, then pain can move in. Real pain can move in and put its feet up on the ledges of my spine. Can’t wait.
‘Another coffee, sir?’
‘Why not?’
And off he goes. Can’t wait.
Now that I know where Monger lives I should just call the police. I don’t know why I’m sat here in this pink caff, dealing with it all by myself. But what can I do? What proof do I have? And besides, better that it’s me watching him than him watching me.
I haven’t really stopped shaking since he told me he was going to kill me. I’m not sure that I want to stop shaking. There’s something gratifying about the knowledge that someone cares enough about you to want to kill you. It’s like Lenny was saying about how death is only abstract. But there’s nothing abstract about Monger. On the contrary, Monger is magnificently real. If only we could do this with cancer: hide out in some cafe across the road and follow it to see where it goes.
I fall to my knees and hang my head down into my lap. I wish I could see myself from ten feet away. I think I’d quite like to paint it.
‘Another coffee, sir?’
‘No, thank you,’ I say, raising my eyes, ‘no thank you very much, I don’t think I should. Do you? I mean, really?’
‘So do you want the bill?’
‘Oh yes,’ I say, ‘the bill.’
‘Well, it’s six coffees. That’s five pounds forty’ He looks at my feet.
I begin to go through my pockets, but then I remember I’m wearing a dressing gown and that I only have two pockets to go through and both of them are empty, save for the odd tissue. I should have lobbed a few bob into my hood as I left the flat, but Monger was making his move and there was no time for thoughts of financing the pursuit.
‘Er . . .’ I say, I er . . . don’t really . . .’ And that’s when I see him again. The door opens and out he comes, all dressed in black and cream, like the Monger of old. Tie pin, cufflinks, handkerchief, spats. Spats! He takes a left and heads off towards Platt Street.
‘Can I pay you later?’ I say to the clod in the apron.
‘Later?’ he says, palms askance.
‘Like tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow?’
I hesitate. And then: ‘Oh never mind.’
‘Never mind?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘never you mind.’ I stand and push past him on my way to the door.
‘Five pounds forty!’ he shouts, obviously not understanding my suggestion of a deferred payment.
‘Right,’ I mutter and stumble out onto the street.
Monger’s climbing into a taxi and I look around for a taxi of my own so that I can yell, ‘Follow that taxi!’ But this, alas, isn’t Manhattan and I’m left in the middle of the street with some blue-faced waiter swearing at me, screaming something about care in the community and Baroness Thatcher.
I let it go.
I haven’t climbed a wall since I was in my teens. And I’m not really climbing a wall right now. I’m climbing a drainpipe, but my feet are on the wall. My poor bleeding feet. The belt of my gown has come undone, exposing my belly to the October winds. I don’t know what makes me think I’m up to this, but here I am, about to break into private property. I really don’t know what it is – perhaps it’s the season. I’m about twenty-five feet up in the air, the sort of height that’s gonna kill you if you have to come down from it in a hurry. It occurs to me that the higher I climb, the more unstable the drainpipe’s gonna be – the more unstable I’m gonna be. There’s a small extension on the building below and as I draw level with the roof of this extension I panic and attempt a leap. Messy and uncalculated. I catch my breath, fling out my arms and, like an Alsatian impersonating a kitten, smash into the side of the roof, all paws and snout. But no matter; I’m not dead. I’m still up in the air. I’m still safe, dangling there at a fatal altitude.
I lower myself into Monger’s bathroom from the window, via the sink, and onto the floor. I take a few minutes to grimace and wheeze and growl and whine, attending to the sundry agonies of my flesh. Only my arse is intact. My feet, my hands, my elbows, knees, knuckles, nipples, thighs, groin, face and neck are burning and bleeding with such ferocity that I can’t believe they pass unheard in the flat below. I have so many pains I don’t know where to begin. And so I join them all up into one big pain. But the one big pain is more than I can take and I think I might pass out, so I pester them all back to their respective corners and resolve to monitor their intensities in a formal and alphabetical order. Since, as I mentioned, my arse is intact, I meditate first upon the pain in my balls. Jesus Harold Christ! I wonder if Monger’s got some morphine kicking about. I wouldn’t put it past him.
For a while I toy with the idea of running a lukewarm bath, just to bathe some of these wounds and offset infection, but taking a bath, however brief, in the flat of a lunatic who is hell bent on killing me would be madness. But isn’t this madness anyway, just being here? Why the fuck did I think that this was a sensible idea? I know that I need to nail this fruitcake and remove him from the board. I need to leave no space between arrest and imprisonment. And then I need to flee the country. But, fucking hell, this is total insanity. At school they never taught us what to do when your life is threatened by an irrational and sinister dandy. Or maybe they did. Maybe I was just off sick that day.
Were it not for a toothbrush, toothpaste, a bottle of Listerine and a scattered display of shaving gear, you might assume there was no one living here. There’s a bar of Imperial Leather soap by the bath and a toilet roll on top of the cistern, but apart from that, nothing to report.
The kitchen is another matter. The kitchen stinks. The walls are damp and scorched and the floor’s as filthy as a market pavement. A mob of flies patrol the one bare light bulb, to and fro, as though they’ve found their answer. On the work surfaces a hundred or so other flies lie still and brittle. Others, some of them only half dead, languish in the mould of an old salad, or tremble on the creased green skin of a forgotten coffee. I linger in the doorway, look at my feet and, having seen enough, decide to go no further.
The living room, for me at least, has no precedent. The first thing I notice – for how could I not? – is the cacophonous ticking of some fifteen to twenty battered junk-shop clocks. The clocks are dispersed, with no apparent method, throughout the room, on various surfaces, and half a dozen of them are strewn across the floor. The largest clock is about a foot and a half tall and sits on top of an old mahogany wardrobe. It is the only clock that tells anything approaching the correct time. The rest are buckled and grazed, missing faces or hands, or sometimes both; but all of them, no matter what their condition, are vibrant and ticking. The sound is appalling. In the middle of the room sits a threadbare scarlet sofa bed that hasn’t been put away and a dozen bottles scattered either side. The wooden floor is stuck with a discordant collage of rugs and wrappers. There is a black butcher’s bicycle, and a blue bubblegum machine. There is a birdcage filled with billiard balls and nails, and over by the fireplace, a small dead tree. Two grimy windows, caked with pigeon shit and soot, offer up only a hint of the buildings opposite. The stench is crippling.
In another corner stands a full-length mirror and just to the left of that, two long clothes rails hung with cellophane-wrapped shirts and blazers. Along the bottom of the rails a dozen pairs of expensive shoes are lined up in neat rows
. Leaned up against the adjacent wall are eight clean umbrellas, six canes, a basket of fine hats and a small Moroccan box filled with collar studs, cufflinks, tie pins, watch straps, signet rings, playing cards and dice. It is the only part of the flat that bears any relation to the man I met. Elsewhere there is such a rich jumble of arcane ephemera that I find it difficult to know where to begin. With the stuffed mice in the fireplace? With the red fire bucket filled with dentures and bells? With the fingernails on the mantelpiece, or the rocking horse with the rotting plastic saddle and the eye sockets filled with fag ash and sand? It is the home of a chronic sociopath and my tongue and gums are as dry as a Victorian flannel.
Another corner of the room is festooned with magician’s silks and tinsel bunting. There are twenty-five to thirty canvases stacked against the wall, and a work in progress clamped into an antique easel. The work in progress (if you can call it progress – or work, for that matter) is a disastrous soup of rust and pink paste, trying to pass itself off as a representation of the human face. A smear of burnt sienna which, since it cleaves the face in two, I take to be the nose, is highlighted with what looks like wax and vicious flecks of schoolroom chalk. The mouth is an idle crimson gash, and the gas-blue swirls, which must be the eyes, bob and frolic beneath an angry amber brow. It makes Dubuffet look like Raphael.
Upon investigation, the other canvases are equally abominable. It looks as though they were painted by a child, or a robot, or a monkey; or some kind of robotic monkey child. Were it not for the noose I might have missed the point altogether. But since there is a noose – an infantile umber line and loop, cross hatched with jagged, unmixed lampblack acrylic – the point is inescapable. Since there is this noose in every last one of these diabolical stabs at portraiture, I am left in no doubt whatsoever regarding Monger’s subject matter. For they are surely, are they not, painfully misbegotten renderings of his late, purportedly murdered father, Mr Godfrey Bolton. And you know what? No one could really blame me if I just squatted down and shat right here on one of the numerous ticking clocks that populate this filthy wooden floor.
The Late Hector Kipling Page 30