by David Bowker
“Don’t go on about the wife-fucking,” said Jesus. “I’ve already apologized about that.”
“Okay,” I said, speaking through my hand.
“And the reason why I was hostile to you, I don’t like anyone going near the women I’m doing it with. It’s just a rule I have. But if I’d known you were married, I wouldn’t have fucked her. I’m a reasonable man.”
“What about the money you’re charging Caro? She only borrowed twenty grand and you’re asking for—what? One-thirty? What’s reasonable about that?”
Bad Jesus sighed. “I’ll cut the debt in half. Okay? Sixty-five thousand.”
“Thirty.”
“Eighty-five,” said Jesus.
I looked at him. “Now you’re going higher. What are you going higher for?”
“Because, my friend, you tried to take advantage. Bad mistake. Never try to take advantage of a maniac who’s doing you a favor.”
“I just don’t think we can find sixty-five.”
“Yes, you can. And you pay me in full on Friday, understand?”
“I thought we were friends.”
“Are we fuck? Friends? Why are we friends? Because I gave you a ride in my car?”
“You’re acting friendly.”
“Oh, acting. Sure, I’m great at acting. But I don’t do friendship. Nothing against you, you could be the nicest guy in the world, it’d make no difference. I don’t feel what other people feel. That’s why I’m rich. So don’t flatter yourself. You get on the wrong side of me, you’ll soon find out how friendly I am.”
I must still have looked unhappy, because he added, “But look, if it makes you feel any better, C and me didn’t fuck tonight. I couldn’t face all those loud noises she makes. All she did was give me a hand job while I ate my dinner.”
At Victoria, Jesus parked his smart little car in a square and asked me to get out.
“Why?”
“Don’t be so suspicious all the time. I want you to see something.”
We cut through an alley and walked past a burger restaurant and there was Victoria Cathedral in all its gloomy glory. The building was closing, and a steward at the door prepared to bar our way, but when he looked up at Jesus his mouth dropped open and he stepped to one side. “God be with you,” said Bad Jesus. Then he turned to me and grinned.
* * *
ON THE way home, Jesus was in such a good mood that he let me drive his car. Until now, I had always ridiculed Porsches because of the kind of people who own them. Yet the Son of God’s car was a beautiful machine, and driving it felt like gliding through space.
Jesus wanted me to go to a drinking club in South London with him. I told him I needed to get back.
“Why?”
“Caro’ll wonder where I am.”
“Here’s my phone. Call her.”
“I’ve got my own phone.”
“Why are you in such a hurry to get back to a woman who’s been fucking another man?”
“Well, given the choice, she wouldn’t have done that.”
Bad Jesus was incredulous. “You honestly believe that? Let me tell you about me and women. I could walk into any bar and within ten minutes, three ordinary whores would walk up to me and beg me, literally beg me, to mistreat them. Do you doubt that?”
“No.”
“Women like to be told they’re ugly. Once in a while, they like to be punched and kicked. They particularly like to crawl naked on their hands and knees before a dirty murderer who looks like Jesus Christ. Caroline is no different.”
I felt I was in no position to argue.
“And now you know what a liar she is,” said Jesus, “are you still eager to hurry home to her?”
I nodded. He blew out his breath despairingly as if he’d never heard anything so stupid. When we were passing through Barnes, a shiny four-wheel-drive overtook us. The guy in the front passenger seat leaned out of the window and swore at us. Then the car sped off, tearing crazily round the narrow bend and out of sight.
“See that?” said Jesus. “Standards are declining everywhere. How old would you say that guy was? Forty? Forty-five?”
“Yeah. About that.”
“He’s probably somebody’s father. Why was he shouting? Where’s his dignity?”
“Dunno.”
“See his face? He was fat and soft. It’s amazing how many weak, cowardly bastards act brave when they’re behind the wheel of a car.”
“But he wasn’t behind the wheel.”
“Yeah, okay, but you know what I mean. He felt safe in his metal box. Maybe he’d got that false sense of security that guys get after a few drinks. Also, perhaps he was irritated because this car’s better than his, so he thinks he has the right to insult us. Or maybe he hasn’t got a car. Maybe his friend who was driving is the only one with a car. I’m serious. We live in a very petty world.”
Jesus lit a cigarette from the dashboard. A little later, we passed the same car, parked on the pavement outside an off-license. Two well-scrubbed middle-class men were getting out, laughing and joking, big bellies bursting over their trouser belts.
“Stop the car,” said Jesus.
“Why?” I said, already doing what I was told. I mean, it was his car.
“I just want to talk to them.”
I pulled up, and Jesus got out and walked over to the two nice middle-class men. I followed him, afraid that the situation might be about to turn nasty.
“Excuse me? What did you shout at us just now?” said Jesus to the passenger. He had plump, shiny red cheeks. His friend, the driver, wore glasses and had sleek white hair with a boyish fringe. You could tell that neither of them had had to worry about money in his entire life.
“You were driving in the middle of the road,” declared the driver, in a self-satisfied, plummy voice. He had that kind of repulsive confidence that people get from living in a place like Barnes, earning too much money and eating like pigs.
“I didn’t ask you,” said Jesus.
The driver huffed and puffed. His friend said, “Now, come on, it’s hardly something to get heated about.”
“You called my friend here a bad word,” said Jesus.
“Did I? I really don’t remember.”
“Are you saying you don’t think he can drive? He’s a martial arts expert. He could hurt you very badly.”
The passenger was trying to edge away. “Well, I dare say he could. But the fact remains, he was in the middle of the road.”
“He was keeping left, like all good motorists,” said Jesus.
“Well, that’s your perspective,” said the passenger, with a tight little sneer. “It certainly isn’t mine.”
Before I could react, Bad Jesus grabbed the passenger’s ears, dug his thumbs into the man’s eye sockets, and flicked his eyeballs out onto the pavement. The victim screamed and put his hands to his face. Blood burst through his fingers in sad, thin little spurts.
“What’s your perspective now?” said Jesus, drawing a dainty little revolver with a golden handle.
Then he turned to the driver, who was backing away. “See that?” said Jesus, pointing down at the two bloody staring eyes on the pavement. “That’s what happens to people like you.”
“Bastard!” said the driver.
Jesus waved the gun at him, and the driver turned to flee, but he ran straight into a litter bin, hitting it so hard that he doubled up in pain. His blind friend continued to squeal, staggering around in circles, treading his own eyes into the pavement. It was a scene from hell, yet I was curiously reluctant to leave it.
Jesus was obliged to take my arm, drag me to the Porsche, and push me in. Then he got behind the wheel and drove away, keeping his lights off until we were out of sight in case some good citizen made a note of the registration.
Jesus snatched a tissue from a box in the glove compartment and wiped his fingers as he drove along. I watched him for any signs of emotion, but there weren’t any. He wasn’t even flustered. He might as well have swatted
a couple of flies.
“Why the fuck did you do that?” I said.
“They’ll live. What are you worried about?” Bad Jesus grinned at me. “I wanted to show you something. Caro tells me you’re dangerous. A real killer. Maybe so. But you’re nowhere near as dangerous as me. No one is.”
“I still don’t know why you did it.”
“Didn’t you see the looks on their faces? They thought they were right. Men like that spend their whole lives being right. They go to the right schools, marry the right women, their politics lean to the right. Believe me, Killer, I’ve done those guys a real favor. Now they’ll spend the rest of their lives thinking about the day they were wrong.”
* * *
CARO RAN to the door and threw herself into my arms. She was crying. “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” she sobbed.
I held her for a long time, still numb from what I’d just witnessed. She asked me what had happened. I told her. She nodded gravely.
“You don’t seem very surprised,” I said.
“Why would I be? That’s what he did to Warren.”
“He gouged Warren’s eye out?”
“Yeah. Warren made a joke about Jesus in front of one of Jesus’ girlfriends. Jesus reached over and flicked out Warren’s eye with his thumb. Apparently it’s one of his favorite tricks. The real Jesus made the blind see. Bad Jesus does the opposite.”
“The guy put out Warren’s eye? And Warren still carried on working for him?”
“He didn’t have much choice,” explained Caro. “He didn’t want to lose the other eye.”
When we got into bed she kissed me and turned over on her side. With her back to me, she said, “I only lied to protect you.”
I lay there in silence, having made my mind up to avoid the usual jealous-lover questions. I didn’t want to know whether Jesus had an enormous cock or whether Caro had ever reached orgasm during their weekly encounters. I knew, from personal experience, that such questions seldom have helpful answers.
I decided that Caro’s behavior couldn’t be classed strictly as unfaithfulness. She’d been in a war zone like France during the Nazi occupation. The SS had forced her to work as a sex slave, but soon the war would be over. After liberation, it would be my sacred duty as a loving husband to do the only decent thing.
I was going to pretend that none of it had ever happened.
* * *
IN THE morning, while Caro was in the bath, I gave her the good news.
“A discount? From Bad Jesus?” she marveled. “What happened? Does he fancy you?”
“Even if he does, I doubt he values my arse cheeks at sixty-five grand.”
“Bad Jesus doesn’t let anyone off anything. It’s unheard of.”
“I suppose even the worst people like to be nice once in a while.”
When Caro was dressed, a miracle took place. She logged on to her online bank account to find just over three million sitting there. Caro arranged there and then for half the money to be transferred to my account. I couldn’t believe it. No one had ever given me one and a half million pounds before.
“I wouldn’t have a penny without you,” said Caro,” so even if we split up you’ll have enough to live on.”
“What about the proceeds of the house sale?”
“The same. From now on, we share everything fifty-fifty.”
This was good news for me, because my income, never impressive, had sunk to zero. The fire brigade had confirmed that the fire at my shop had been the result of arson, which meant that the insurance company, suspecting me of torching my own ailing business, was a little wary of paying up.
Enjoying my amazement, Caro grabbed me by the shoulders. “Now. What are we going to spend it on?”
My face became mock stern. “First of all, I think we should take care of all our debts. Which includes the debts of Miss Chile Concarne and Ms. Ivy Bigun. We don’t always want to be in the position of hiding every time we hear a knock on the door.”
“I’ll sort it out today,” she promised.
* * *
FRIDAY MORNING was cold and misty, like a picture postcard of winter. At nine o’clock, as arranged, we walked into the bank to collect sixty-five thousand pounds in cash. The assistant manager called us into her office, and an underling brought in Jesus’ money on a tray, in bundles of fifty-pound notes. The bank helpfully provided us with a special zip-up bag to carry it in so that any muggers would immediately know we were worth bludgeoning to death.
By ten minutes to ten, we were waiting among the pine trees in Kew Gardens. The mist hadn’t lifted, and the deserted gardens seemed to be floating in a gray dream. It was freezing cold, but that wasn’t why we were shivering.
I’d intended to take Warren’s loaded gun, just in case Jesus had wanted our money and our lives. Caro had begged me not to. “Even with a gun, you wouldn’t stand a chance in hell against these people. Can you shoot straight? No. If Jesus finds out you’re armed, he’ll think you were planning something. Mark, for God’s sake, leave the fucking thing behind.”
So I did.
At five past ten, Peter the Rock turned up with another guy who looked like a bailiff, a little square head on big square shoulders in a cheap square suit. Caro and I were both relieved. Without his brother around, Rock was noticeably more relaxed, clearly regarding neither Caro nor me as a serious threat. Rock even apologized for the way Jesus had set two thugs on me. “He gets like that,” he explained. “He’s even like it with me. Nice and friendly one minute, next minute he goes off like a fucking rocket.” Then he introduced his companion. “This is Cancer Boy. He kind of grows on you.”
Caro placed the money bag on a bench, and Cancer Boy unzipped it. His eyes glistened as he reached in and withdrew a bundle of fifty-pound notes.
“Brilliant,” said Rock, laughing boyishly. “It’s all here?”
“Sixty-five thousand,” I said. “As agreed.”
“That is just great.” Rock shook his head.” I have to admit, I didn’t expect you to deliver. I’d have taken bets on it.”
“So can we go now?” said Caro.
Rock shook his head. “Gotta frisk you.”
“Why bother?” said Caro pleasantly.
“I know, it’s shit, it’s boring,” said Rock, “but Jesus told me to check you weren’t wired.” He shook his head apologetically.
With brisk efficiency, Cancer Boy patted us down and declared us both clean. “Okay,” said Rock. “Now here’s the bit I don’t like. Jesus says we gotta add an extra two grand onto the debt.”
“What?” said Caro and I in unison.
“Don’t blame me,” said Rock. “You know what he’s like.”
Cancer Boy shook his head dolefully as if he didn’t agree with it either.
“Why should we pay an extra two thousand?” I said.
“Jesus says it’s a disappointment fine,” explained Rock.
“A what?” said Caro.
“A disappointment fine.” Rock nodded to me. “He’s disappointed in your man here—what’s his name?”
“Mark,” volunteered Caro.
“Yeah,” said Rock. “Seems Jesus let Mark drive his car the other night. Then some knobhead called him a name and Jesus was forced to punish him. Seems Mark here didn’t show much gratitude. In fact, according to Jesus, he acted like he disapproved. So that’s what the fine’s about. It’s a penalty for disappointing Jesus. You hurt his feelings, man.”
“Oh, that’s bullshit,” I said.
I could see that Rock was about to disagree. Then he changed his mind and nodded. “You think I don’t know? Jesus drives me insane. But he’s my brother, you know. I’m stuck with the crazy fuck. Hey, that rhymes.”
“Couldn’t you just say we paid the extra two thou even though we didn’t?”
“Er, no. I’m afraid Jesus is a highly numerate kind of guy.”
“What if we refuse to pay?” I said.
Cancer Boy spat on the ground. “Then it all starts
again,” said Rock. “Jesus hounds you for the two thousand, doubles your debt every month until you owe him a stupid fucking fortune all over again.” He shrugged. “It’s up to you, man, but I know what I’d do.”
I thought for a moment. “I’ve got a car that’s worth a few grand. A Fiat Uno. You could have that.”
“A fucking Fiat Uno? That’s an old lady’s car. Why are you driving around in a piece of shit like that?”
Cancer Boy laughed silently, his big shoulders moving up and down.
I felt myself blushing. “It’s not so bad,” I said.
“How old is it?” said Rock.
“A couple of years.”
“And I could take it away with me now, yeah?”
“Why not?”
Rock decided this was a reasonable solution. So Cancer Boy departed to drive back alone while the Rock, carrying the money, strolled back with us to Caro’s flat, where the Fiat was parked.
“Before I forget,” said Rock, as we passed through the Lion Gate. “Either of you seen this before?”
Casually, he passed a crumpled note over to me. It was an e-mail printout. The sender was [email protected]. By the first sentence, I knew the message had been written by the same freak that had been spamming me.
Who do you think you are, you filthy homosexual coward? Do you think a single woman would ever look at you if you weren’t pointing a gun at them? You hideous glob of putrescence, I would like to remove your eyelids with a blunt razor, whip your genitals with barbed wire, and then pour kerosene onto the wounds. You couldn’t satisfy a sex-starved mongrel, let alone a woman.
“Yes? No?” inquired Rock languidly.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve had a hundred e-mails just like it.”
“So have we,” said Rock. “We checked—they all come from libraries or Internet cafés.”
I passed it to Caro. “As they coincided with me getting back together with Caro, I even wondered if Jesus was sending them.”
Rock shook his head. “My brother doesn’t type. Doesn’t write as far as I know. I don’t mean he’s illiterate. He’s a very bright guy. But if he wanted to hurt your feelings he’d use a pair of pliers.” His eyes narrowed as he assessed us. “You really didn’t send it?”