Kimberly's Capital Punishment

by Richard Milward

  I spent the next two days mesmerised by the menu. I tried to get Meaty Stevie and Fruity Stevie to help test me on it, but they just stared up at the kitchen ceiling with slack jaws. Nevertheless, I had the knack of it by the weekend. At night, the dishes invaded my dreams, becoming a sort of culinary concrete poem in my sleepy brain-pipes:

  That Friday, I sat with the round man (whose actual name was Paolo: a round name) in the back of the restaurant, while he tested me on prices, ingredients and ‘Vegetarian yes?’ or ‘Vegetarian no?’ Paolo had a scar on his left cheek, and I wondered if it was from an accident in the kitchen, or punishment from the Mafia for crimes against cuisine. He kept trying to make me laugh because I was a very looking-good lady, and that made me laugh. I got the job.

  I started that night. It was strange being suddenly plunged into a new occupation – I felt like a gymnast: balancing plates, bending over backwards, tentatively tiptoeing between the tables. Like any job, the first day was the toughest, and the longest. Paolo rushed me off my feet, it being so busy on Friday nights, and only two of us waitressing. The other one was called Nina: another very looking-good lady, though she didn’t have very good English. I think she was from Romania. I don’t think she liked me much. She kept huffing and puffing whenever I stalled at the till, or nudged into her on the way round the tight window tables, or splashed béchamel sauce on her blouse.

  The violinist turned up at about seven, although there weren’t many loved-up diners. It was mostly groups of fat Italian men, spending for ever on each course; discussing business in a hushed foreign tongue; laughing; and making daft comments about the poor waitresses. Me and Nina got a lot of attention, thanks to us being female, and under the age of twenty-five. Plus, the uniform involved a plunging neckline. I could see it was practical, though – the blouse kept you cool when the kitchens fired up, and won you lots of tips. Saying that, Paolo’s queer idea was to split the tips three ways, between me, Nina and himself – the stingy bastard. He had breasts himself, but I didn’t see him wearing a plunging neckline.

  At the end of the night, I was shattered. The balls of my feet were throbbing, but there was definitely that satisfaction of having earned an honest crust. Paolo gave me and Nina some crusts of stale garlic bread and £40 cash in hand, which seemed reasonable enough for six hours’ work. I spent £2 of it on the bus home, so killing were my ankles, and I had a long shower, to get rid of the stink of Italy. I frothed myself up with the Imperial Leather Japanese Spa shower cream, the one that gives you a satori every time you squirt it. Each satori revealed to me the same thing: how much I wished I was in an actual Japanese spa, being rubbed down by gorgeous male geishas, not standing in my mouldy bathtub.

  I dried myself to the murky sound of cars going past the window with the curtains shut. Every muscle in my body felt stiff, like one night waitressing was equal to doing a decathlon with a ball and chain round your ankle. To be fair, I must’ve walked about five miles over the imitation Roman mosaic during the course of the evening. I experienced my loveliest sleep in ages, despite waking up sporadically to serve customers, count money and subconsciously twist the pepper-grinder. By the second night, I felt like I’d been sprinting on a flaming hamster wheel. Then, by the third night, I had enough money to return to the North East, to watch some people dig a hole, and throw my boyfriend into it.

  Stevie had his revenge. It was freezing at the funeral. The Capital’s always at least two or three degrees warmer than the North (due to its toxic climate, caused by pollution, overpopulation, and its slightly closer proximity to the equator) and, stupidly, I’d gone back in only a light black jacket, black skirt and black tights.

  I recognised a lot of people, like Stevie’s crying mam and dad, his crying aunties and uncles, and his lad mates trying to put on brave faces. Stevie was there too, dressed in a wooden box. I stood by his side for a bit, and I wanted to tell him I was sorry, but I didn’t think he could hear me through all that shining pine.

  There was a lot of standing up involved throughout the service. My feet were still aching from my first week at the Ristorante di Fantasia, and every time we settled down on the pews we had to stand up again and pay yet more respects and say ‘Amen’ over and over again. It was a typical Catholic affair, with plenty of cathartic howling and long-winded prayers. There was a particularly poignant moment when Joy Division’s ‘The Eternal’ came through the church PA, which was the song Stevie had chosen to go out to. It was one of the more miserable numbers from that album Closer he had emblazoned on his chest the day he died. I’d prefer something a little more upbeat at my funeral – something like ‘Celebration’ by Kool & the Gang, or ‘I Will Survive’.

  Outside, we huddled about, shivering, while they lowered Stevie into the ground. The priest seemed fairly convinced Stevie was going to Heaven, the way he was preaching. I wasn’t sure how much I believed in Heaven. It was a nice idea, your soul floating off to enjoy the heady delights of Cloud 9, but, more than likely, death’s just a vacant black void, where the most excitement you get is putrefaction.

  I imagined Stevie being fed grapes by girls better looking than me, on a pink, fluffed-up cloud, and I grimaced. Still, it was a nicer idea than him being fed on by maggots. I rolled my first tear of the afternoon, like an invisible snail making a trail down my left cheek.

  Foolishly, I’d forgotten to buy any flowers to put on Stevie’s grave, which read:

  STEVEN ANTHONY WALLACE

  1.4.1984 – 23.2.2008

  YOU WILL NEVER BE FORGOTTEN

  KEEP ON RUNNING

  REST IN PEACE

  Soon, the snot and tears were going haywire, giving me a salty Vaseline moustache. There was an ice-cold body going down there into the dark earth, just because I’d been selfish and kissed a man with a square mouth one night in the Capital. The grave itself was like a huge square mouth, chewing up my boyfriend in a second square mouth: the coffin. I appeared to be in such distress, I got cuddled by various Wallace family members, and the fact I’d forgotten to buy any flowers went unnoticed.

  I was well and truly getting away with murder.

  The wake was at four o’clock in the Dorman’s Club, just a short walk from the graveyard. Mrs Wallace had booked out the top room and put on a marvellous spread; all the food laid out with little grave-markers attached, with PRAWN and MILD CHEDDAR and TUNA epitaphs. Everyone tried to get drunk instead of being silent and depressed, although, of course, most ended up doing both. They had to put down WARNING! SLIPPERY SURFACE! signs by half five, the floor was so drenched.

  Cleverly, the DJ played cheery disco music. I steered clear of the Smirnoff Ices, instead slurping back gin and tonics courtesy of Stevie’s dad, and I danced with him too. It was halfhearted shuffle-dancing, though; the way you tend to dance when you’ve just killed your dancing partner’s son.

  All the people there were typical Middlesbrough, as in far too friendly and loud. Having been horrible for the past few months, I found it all a bit overwhelming. Once the drinks had been flowing a good while, strangers I recognised and strangers I didn’t recognise kept coming over to give their condolences. It turned out Stevie had been singing my praises all over town, and I had to dam the tears because everyone was under the impression I was a wonderful girlfriend.

  ‘Oh, Stevie loved you so much, love,’ they said.

  ‘You’ve got a heart of gold, you,’ they said.

  ‘It must be so hard for you, darl,’ they said. ‘Stevie was an idiot doing that to you. Selfish, in a way.’

  ‘You’ve lost your accent, you,’ they said.

  As the wake went on, yet more people turned up, to pay their respects, and add to the puddles. I didn’t recognise many of Stevie’s athletics mates, apart from Tel the bog-eyed hurdler, and Natalie the fat pentathlete. Natalie had the potential to be a great sports-woman, if only she didn’t keep getting pregnant by a string of different sportsmen. She must’ve been one of Stevie’s closest clubmates, because her puddle was by far th
e biggest. I decided to avoid her.

  I was maudlin by nine. I went to sit on my own in the corner, nervous I’d inadvertently spurt something out about the attack of the red mittens, or the three periods, or the hamster, or the tongue. It was weird being back in Teesside. In the Capital, it was easy enough to be anonymous, and I could hide under the blue gingham covers and pretend none of this horror had happened. But, up in the Dorman’s, I was face-to-face with the sad results of my selfishness, like watching a live, updated re-enactment of Goya’s Disasters of War. All’s well in love and war – except when you change your fucking loyalty, that is.

  ‘Ey up,’ two voices said in stereo, as I was mid-munch through a chipolata. I glanced up cautiously.

  It was a gruesome two-headed monster. No, pardon me – on second glance, it was only Shaun and Sean, Stevie’s two best pals.

  ‘Aw, hi, lads,’ I chomped.

  Shaun and Sean were born minutes apart from each other in Middlesbrough Parkside Hospital in 1981 – to different parents – and have been forced into friendship ever since. Growing up in neighbouring semis in Billingham, then studying the same medical degree and finding work together in funeral care, the boys have been practically inseparable for over twenty-six years. Nowadays, it’s debatable if they still even like each other – they seem to spend every waking moment slagging each other off, and embarrassing each other. They’re the type of lads who pass off intense cruelty as ‘harmless banter’, though they’re nothing but charming towards other people.

  It took my bleary eyes a second or two to focus. There’s this daft thing Geordies and Mackems like to say about ‘smog monsters’ from Teesside – that they’ve got two heads and twelve toes from living so close to mammoth chemical plants – and Shaun and Sean don’t help dispel the myth. They’re like Siamese twins. The only irony is they look nothing like each other – Shaun’s tall and skinny with hair like a crow’s left wing; Sean’s short and stubby, and his T-shirts are always too tight. Sean also has a habit of staring, like both his eyes are lazy.

  Being around them is like listening to domestic abuse in Dolby surround-sound:

  SHAUN KIMBERLY SEAN

  Ey up Ey up

  Aw, hi, lads

  How you doing? Alright?

  Ah, well, yeah, you know

  You’ve lost your accent, you

  Keeping your head up?

  Yeah

  Fucking mad. Absolutely mad

  Aye, but you won’t want to talk about it

  Nah, well

  Still in the Capital?

  Yeah, are youse?

  Yeah. The Bush

  Shepherd’s Bush

  Fuck off, she knows

  Where are you, like?

  Me? Tottenham

  Ah, fucking Sperms

  Aye, they fucking, 1–1

  1–0, you prick

  Fuck off, 1–1. Luke Young gone and eq—

  Anyway, what you doing down there?

  Me? Just this waitressing thing

  How is it?

  It’s alright, yeah

  I’m behind this bar now. The funeral care didn—

  Fucking gar bar

  Fucking gar bar?

  Fucking gay bar, then

  Is it fuck

  He comes home with loads of lads’ numbers

  Ha, hm

  Naw, do I fuck. Fuck off! He’s a fuckin—

  Eh?

  Fucking … David Hasselhoff here

  Ha, hm

  Daft lifeguard, he is

  Tit

  Anyway, we should all go for a drink down there, then

  With me?

  Yeah, yeah, like

  Aye

  Mmm, that’d be nice, lads

  I left the two-headed monster to its bickering, sloping back over to the bar for another gin. It’s strange how there comes a point when best friends (or boyfriends and girlfriends) stop trying to impress each other; instead, being blunt, mildly bitter and revelling in each other’s misfortunes, just because they’ve been spending far too much quality time together.

  Apparently, arguing is healthy, and you only argue with people you love, or people who remind you too much of yourself – hence, there’s no point falling in love with someone unless you’re willing to hate them now and then, too. Love is a fluffy, swaddling straitjacket; a bagful of kittens sent down a river; a sugar-coated bullet to the groin. Love is certainly lovely, but you build up a tolerance to it.

  Perhaps it was inevitable I’d start being nasty to Stevie. Perhaps it was fate. That’s what I told myself anyway, guzzling down more and more gin until the room started to spin spin spin into a black and white whirr, and then blacked out completely.

  ‘Cup of tea, love?!’

  I didn’t recognise the voice. I didn’t recognise the room either. Worryingly, it had photographs of Shaun and Sean plastered all over the plaster. Panicking, I scoured my pounding memory banks for clues, or misty images of me treating the two-headed monster to a sympathetic, gin-soaked spit-roasting session but, thankfully, the records came up blank.

  ‘Er, yeah, ta!’ I shouted anyway. Only fools turn down free tea. Taking another glance round the room, I was glad to see no funerary urns, cocktail shakers, or Speedos. Instead, I blinked at the photos of other ex-Newlands students; the cuddly-toy mascots; the workbooks; the trophies of gold and silver runners poised for ever on plastic turf, going nowhere. I picked and flicked a crumb of sleep out of my left eye, just as Stevie’s mam came bursting into the bedroom, armed with a steaming cup of tea.

  ‘Morning, pet. Here we are, love,’ she said, placing the cup on Stevie’s dresser. ‘Ooh, your head must be killing.’

  I smiled, meaning, ‘Yes, it is, thanks.’

  I hardly recognised Stevie’s room from the lair of sportswear me and him used to mope around in, years back. Obviously Mr and Mrs Wallace – like all mams and dads – couldn’t resist tidying the place once Stevie flew the nest. Sitting up in bed, I picked more sleep out of my eyes, and spotted myself in some of the photos – as a tourist in the Capital, or dressed as a skeleton on my twenty-first birthday, or in a loving, long-lost embrace with Stevie.

  ‘As if I ended up here,’ I said, with an exaggerated look of hangover on my face. Mrs Wallace smiled, her own petite hangover wrapped up in her soft dressing gown and slippers.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, love, me and Tone were happy to bring you back. Anyhow, Martin’ll be here in half an hour. You were better off coming back here,’ said Mrs Wallace.

  Martin Sawyer, the family lawyer, was set to read Stevie’s will at noon. It was typical of Stevie to write a will at his age – I bet he even bought himself a calligraphy pen. I wondered if he liked me enough to leave me something. All I wanted was his jade green parka – I imagined the Necropolitan Police dusting it for fingerprints, and finding all these square-shaped, square-faced bachelor fingerprints.

  It turned out they didn’t bury Stevie in the clothes he’d died in. Instead, his parents forked out for a Marks & Spencer suit. As I sipped my tea, I imagined all the dapper skeletons lurking underground like a malnourished, rat-eaten Rat Pack.

  After the tea, Mrs Wallace left me to get dressed, and I felt depressed putting on yesterday’s boozy clothes. As I pushed my legs back into the black tights I shuddered, wondering whose job it was to put the suit on Stevie’s corpse. When Shaun and Sean started up their funeral home, they used to show me and Stevie films on their phones of their workmates mucking about with the corpses – like making them feel each other up, or talk with daft spazzy accents, or do the electric boogaloo. It increased my desperation not to die a million-fold.

  Downstairs, the lounge was absolutely spotless, except for the navy blue spots on the wallpaper. Old people love cleaning. I felt bad sitting on the new sofa in my stinking, gin-spiked clothes, but standing up didn’t seem appropriate either. Martin Sawyer, the family lawyer, came round at twelve on the dot, and we had to drink more cups of boiling tea while he readied his papers.
/>   Jade green parka jade green parka jade green parka, I repeated to myself. Burn the evidence burn the evidence burn the evidence.

  The reading of the will was less formal than I’d imagined – Martin was clearly a good friend of the family and, while he retained the stock sympathetic face required at times of mourning, he cracked a few jokes as well.

  I just wanted to get it over with, and get back down to the Capital. It felt uncomfortable, being back in Teesside – and even less comfortable being back in Stevie’s pad, drinking tea with his mam and dad. The reading of the will was the last formality in the mourning process – the last abstract, origami nail in Stevie’s coffin. After all this, there’d be some sort of closure, I thought, and I could flee south and be alone again, with everybody. I needed to be surrounded by people who’ve never even heard of Stevie Wallace.

  The will was surprisingly straightforward. I’d imagined Stevie might divide his record collection into categories for family and friends, according to taste and disposition; or for him to distribute his wardrobe and remaining money round numerous different charities. If that was so, I’d be straight round Scope the next morning to buy back the jade green parka – hopefully with the Polaroid of me and Square-Face still there, untouched, in the secret inside pocket. Nowadays, whenever I hear a police siren, I get the shakes. But surely you can’t be arrested just for cheating on your boyfriend?

  I listened to Martin reading the will, with my toes crossed. This was the gist of it:

  Mr and Mrs Wallace would receive the contents of Stevie’s trophy cabinet.

  The slums of Africa would receive the contents of Stevie’s wardrobe.

  Kimberly Clark would receive the contents of Stevie’s bank account – a whopping £7,777.77 – for being ‘my one true love’, in the words of Martin Sawyer, although I think it was supposed to be Stevie speaking. My face reddened with equal parts joy and despair.

  The rest of Stevie’s possessions were to be auctioned off, and the money given to his charity of choice, United Through Sport.