We had to count ‘5-4-3-2-1’, then hurl ourselves off the crane.
We counted ‘5-4-3-2-1’, then we paused, then we squealed, then we hurled ourselves off the crane.
I probably gave Mr Sunday tinnitus from screaming so much. The ground flew at us at 150 miles an hour, like planet Earth was a giant football and someone was kicking it at us. They kicked it at us repeatedly for about thirty seconds, kicking softer and softer, until me and Mr Sunday finally landed on the surface of the football with a swift bump. I let out a gasp.
Instinctively, me and Mr Sunday laughed, hugged each other, and exclaimed empty lines like, ‘God, fucking hell, that was fucking mint. Again! Again!’ To be honest, though, I was glad to be untangled from the rope, and I knew I’d never do it again.
We walked dangly legged back towards the pub. Me and Mr Sunday were still the same shade as that grey and miserable sky. However, when we got back under the brick canopy, it was heartwarming to find Polly and Mr No Tomorrow kissing, with their hands in each other’s waistbands.
In an abstract, elastic fashion, the bungee jump had served its purpose. We decided not to get another drink; instead, we walked back through the evergreen trees to the Ristorante di Fantasia, to get something to eat now our stomachs had settled. I thought Paolo might even throw in some free tofu ravioli, since he’d made a full batch of the stuff and no one ever ordered it.
Surviving the bungee jump made me happy to be alive – the Capital seemed to shine that little bit brighter, giving the dark clouds ruby crowns. And, for the first time since Stevie, I felt like I was falling in love again. There was a schoolgirlish excitement in the pit of my stomach, which I hadn’t felt since the sixteenth of June 2003, in the Southern Cross.
After Stevie died, I was worried I might not recognise love the next time I came across it, but Mr Sunday seemed like a keeper. While he was a man of very few words, everything he said I agreed with. As we passed the huge wooden crucifix on West Green Road, Mr Sunday murmured, ‘This has been great.’
I reached into his pocket, where his left hand was hiding.
‘Don’t know how you feel, but we could, like, make a go of this, if you want?’ I said, which was a roundabout way of asking him to be my boyfriend.
‘I … eh, that’d be amazing,’ Mr Sunday replied, which was a roundabout way of saying, ‘Yes, please!’
We stopped by the side of the road, to concentrate on a long kiss and a cuddle. We couldn’t stop grinning. I kept pushing and pushing my body into his, to see how well we fitted together. Butterflies hatched in my belly. After a few minutes, I decided I’d best not suffocate another love of my life, so we parted and carried on up towards the Ristorante, swaying from paving slab to paving slab, giggling at nothing.
Up ahead, Polly and Mr No Tomorrow were giggling at nothing as well. Skipping over the crossings, we soon caught up with them and entered the Ristorante together. I was looking forward to turning Mr Sunday vegetarian, and perhaps even persuading Paolo to crack open the Prosecco.
After striding through the glass door, I got halfway through unbuttoning my raincoat when my face became tight with fear. The butterflies turned to butterfly knives.
Dotted around the restaurant, Mr Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday were sat, dressed in identical white athletics kits, with identical sullen expressions. Some of the men (Mr Monday, Friday and Saturday) had on the full kit, while others had gone for just the bib, or just the shorts and socks. For some reason, Mr Wednesday had complemented his bib with a pair of stockbrokers’ braces, despite not being a stockbroker (I think he worked for T-Mobile). Him and Mr Monday were the only ones to dabble in the peroxide: Mr Wednesday had fashioned an unfashionable blond quiff, while Malcolm’s coverage was patchy, like he’d been caught under a drizzle of acid rain.
All twelve eyes locked onto mine. I tried to hide behind the Guillotine, dreading an altercation. I dithered about the entrance for a bit, like a frightened fawn in the bright headlights of their athletics whites. Suddenly, I was no longer hungry.
When Mr Sunday saw his weekly rivals, he frowned as well, self-consciously picking at the seams of his Lycra shorts. I managed to get him seated with his back to the sporting sextet, but he looked rattled as he flicked through the menu. I sensed impending doom. The air felt charged with venom, like the build-up to a lightning storm, or a wrestling match.
‘Is it the Capital Marathon or what?’ Polly asked, sitting down.
‘Ehm … naw, naw, I don’t know,’ I mumbled, picking my fingernails off. I asked Mr Sunday, ‘Should we, er, have some proper coffee?’
‘Mm,’ he replied, distantly.
I kept my eyes on the Formica. I dreaded the next word. It happened to come from Mr Tuesday, the least sporty-looking of the lot. He dragged his chair up to our table and asked me in his soothing, timid tenor, ‘Why are we all dressed like this?’
I stuck out my bottom lip and shook my head, feigning ignorance. I glanced at Mr Sunday and murmured, ‘Are you even hungry? Maybe we should eat somewh—’
‘Or maybe we should do some sexy-sexy here!’ Mr Saturday goaded, clearly drunk on whatever his empty glasses used to have in them.
The Ghanaian clapped his hands on his table. Then, it all went haywire. Despite having had sex at least three times in his life (hence the daughters), Mr Thursday disliked hearing a young girl spoken to in such lewd terms. I think he also disliked people from Ghana. ‘Wog,’ he muttered, behind his cappuccino. Mr Saturday shot up from table 13, which tilted violently in response.
‘What did you call me?’ he snapped, pointlessly pointing a finger in Mr Thursday’s direction. It was like a re-run of my first encounter with Mr Saturday in the internet caff. I understood now why he had so much pent-up aggression: every time he made a mistake (whether in IT, or in gentlemanly etiquette), people scapegoated his skin. I felt daft now for sending him a bottle of bleach through the post.
‘Well, leave her alone,’ Mr Thursday said, ignoring the question. He kept the cappuccino held up to his face, as if it was insurance against being punched. Surely Mr Saturday wouldn’t hit a white-haired man holding a piece of imitation porcelain – especially not one filled with hot coffee.
I kept staring coldly at the tabletop, though it was difficult to ignore the scene unfolding, especially when Mr Wednesday pulled his chair up to ours and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. I felt his red braces grate against my skin. He took an indignant glance at Mr Sunday, then chirruped in my ear, ‘Someone’s popular, ha ha ha ha!’
I wanted to disappear under the table. Although he never seemed like the aggressive type, Mr Sunday must’ve felt it his duty to protect me, and he said to Mr Wednesday, ‘Do you mind getting off my girlfriend?’
My chest sank. The word ‘girlfriend’ was like the trigger of a starting pistol. All of a sudden, there was chaos in the Ristorante di Fantasia. Mr Saturday gurgled something along the lines of ‘fucking fuckpig’, referring to me, which didn’t bode well with Mr Thursday, nor Mr Sunday. They leapt from their seats and tried to frogmarch the drunk Ghanaian out of the establishment, yanking at his biceps. During the tussle, Mr Saturday fell head-last onto Mr Friday’s table, who, until then, had been blithely tucking into a large portion of osso buco. Both the osso and the buco went flying. Now, if you remember, Mr Friday had a bit of a temper – especially if you happened to wear an Internazionale top, or deprive him of his food. His face went amber, like a basketball, and he cursed and flung Mr Saturday and Sunday back towards our table. ‘What is going on?’ Paolo snarled, watching in disbelief as his restaurant got rearranged. I just shook my head, trying not to incriminate myself. Mr Tuesday – who’d returned to the Ristorante with a brand-new violin, in an unsuccessful bid to get his job back – took my hand and tried to lead me out of the place before I got hurt. It was kind of him, but Mr Wednesday must’ve seen it as a thinly veiled kidnap attempt. He obviously fancied himself as a Sean Connery or Roger Moore character, pulling me to his breast.
I hung limply in his grasp, feeling sick. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got you, I’ve got you,’ he said in my ear, pushing Mr Tuesday away with his elbow. I felt tears sprout in the roots of my eyelashes as Mr Saturday and Sunday carried on grappling with each other, shouting all sorts of unmentionables. Mr Wednesday couldn’t resist sticking his boot in, for the sake of it. It seemed he wanted to establish a pecking order, with himself as alpha male, but he was pretty powerless when it came to being pelted with food by Mr Monday. A rock-hard chunk of ciabatta gave him a glancing blow on the side of the neck, causing him to panic unnecessarily. Daysnoring excitedly, Malcolm seemed to think beginning a food fight was the only way to disperse the violence. The rest of the loaf came next, thudding against the windowpane. No one dared give the disabled boy a clip round the ear, so they carried on focusing their wrath towards Mr Saturday, especially once he’d smashed the Peroni bottle open. He went at Mr Sunday and Wednesday with the jagged edge, opening up miniature shark bites on their hands and cheeks. Seeing red, Mr Friday took a swing at the three of them, like a father trying to discipline unruly triplets. Mr Monday carried on groaning, whale-like, in the corner, surrounded by breadcrumbs. Mr Saturday went down, taking Mr Sunday and table 3 with him, and cracking Mr Sunday’s skull against the exposed brickwork. I shrieked. Mr Friday was about to put Mr Saturday’s head through the front door when the young Ghanaian let out a wheeze and announced, ‘Look … why we all fight over fucky prostitute?’
My heart rate tripled. I felt lightning in my fingertips again.
‘You what?’ Mr Sunday spat, with one hand pressed against his head. His fingers came away bloody.
‘We don’t really care about girl we all fucking for money?’
Mr Saturday’s English left a lot to be desired, but it also left a queer silence in the Ristorante. The pots burbled away in the background, but everything else was quiet. I kept my eyes down. I wished there was some advice printed on the laminated menu or, better still, an ejector-seat button underneath the table. Or, even better: a bomb detonator.
‘She wouldn’t sleep with you,’ Mr Sunday scoffed. I felt his eyes flick towards me, and he added, ‘Would you?’
I lifted my shoulders sheepishly, which could only mean yes. I knew I had to talk, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to say, ‘I needed the money, for the greater good of society. And for this old tramp I know. With scurvy. And rats. And …’
All the friendly strands between me and the men were quickly unravelling. When you’re unfaithful, it’s incredible how fast your partner’s love (or lust) can turn to hatred. Mr Sunday looked disgusted at me. Mr Saturday looked proud of himself. Mr Monday squeezed his hooded eyes shut. Mr Tuesday cradled his newly broken violin. Mr Wednesday cradled his newly broken nose. Mr Thursday dabbed the cappuccino from his chinos. Mr Friday stomped back over to his ruined osso buco. Mr No Tomorrow smirked into the lapels of his denim jacket. Polly hobbled backwards onto the pavement. Finally, it was Paolo who broke the silence:
‘You been using the place like brothel,’ he coughed at me. ‘You fired. You never come here again. You go now.’
I tried to say sorry to Paolo and to the magnificent seven, but there were too many of them to do each individual sorry any justice. Mr Sunday bobbed his head. He couldn’t bear to look at me any longer. I wasn’t sure what was worse: that I’d ruined his chances of settling down with a lover, or that I’d ruined mine. We certainly weren’t going to be an item any more.
Sniffling, I got up from my seat and staggered out of the door. I said nothing more. Keeping my head hung, I strode off down Philip Lane, staring gormlessly at the weeds crawling out of the concrete.
I didn’t wait for Polly or Mr No Tomorrow – instead, I headed straight back to the halal butcher’s, panting, with tears fogging my vision. I wanted to drink five Smirnoff Ices and down fourteen Panadol. I wanted to do another bungee jump, only this time without the elastic band.
When I got to the High Road, I remembered how hungry I was. I wiped my face, then stumbled into the Turkish-Polish-English supermarket to buy my last-ever meal. It took me almost ten minutes to decide what I wanted.
After all, I couldn’t go back to the Ristorante di Fantasia for the tofu ravioli.
After the half-eaten tuna and cucumber sandwich, I made a selection of petrol bombs. The ingredients of a Molotov cocktail are similar to the ingredients of a Cosmopolitan except, instead of vodka and Cointreau, I filled a Smirnoff Ice bottle with white spirit and, instead of the lime and cranberry juice, I doused a couple of tampons in nail polish remover and stuffed them into the neck of the bottle. In a way, I supposed it was more like a flaming sambuca.
I made four of them. The production line was a bit slow-going, what with me taking a break every two minutes to wail into my cushions. By the end of it, my fingers smelled like petrol pumps. I was almost tempted to throw the Molotov cocktails at my own face, there and then, just to get it over with. It gave me a sick thrill, the idea of my black, chargrilled skeleton appearing in the paper, with the headline: IDIOT IMMOLATES HERSELF.
Lucifer stared up at me, ruby-eyed, begging me not to do it. He had so much more to give – he hadn’t even seen a female hamster yet, let alone felt one’s sweet caresses.
I wiped my fingerprints on my new dress, then packed up the Molotov cocktails in a carrier bag and hung them on the doorknob. I supposed it wouldn’t be fair, killing an innocent hamster, let alone all my innocent neighbours. My death deserved to be more symbolic than flash-frying above a halal butcher’s.
I rummaged through some drawers for my battered old Discman, then took Joy Division’s Closer from the pile in Stevie’s wardrobe and slung both in the bag with the cocktails. I changed my underwear and redid my make-up. Then I locked the flat, out of habit, and set off downstairs, back towards the Ristorante di Fantasia.
Closer was the record I most closely associated with Stevie’s death, and it would be the record most closely associated with the death of my seven Stevie wannabes, and me. I wanted ‘The Eternal’ ringing in my ears, as my skin turned from gooseflesh to roast beef.
Luckily, I didn’t have to stall to do the trick with the door – it was still good and loose. As I power-walked back towards Philip Lane, I felt devoid of emotion: the perfect mindset to commit a mass murder. All that mattered to me was getting to the Ristorante as quickly as possible, to put me and my weekly exes out of our misery. It would be a fitting revenge for seven men gang-raping my good nature. And I was going to go down with my rusty old ship. If you can’t beat them, join them. If you can’t make seven men happy by dating them and letting them have sex with you, petrol-bomb them.
Technically, I’d already killed Stevie Wallace, Meaty Stevie and Fruity Stevie, so murdering seven more Stevies should’ve been a doddle. However, when I got to the corner of Philip and Arnold, I realised I had nothing to light the cocktails with. I didn’t smoke, you see. Smoking is for people who want to commit suicide very slowly, with bad breath. I was after a much quicker, more explosive death.
Fortunately, there were eight or nine off-licences on the way to the Ristorante. I went in the first one to browse their fag-lighters. The shopkeeper had Clippers in all sorts of colours, and I spent ages deciding which would be most symbolic. At long last, I plumped for the red one.
Walking out, my head pounded with blood. In a way, I didn’t want to see the Ristorante looming on the horizon – my heart couldn’t quite keep up with all the bad ideas my brain kept putting to it. I wished for a second the Ristorante di Fantasia was an actual fantasy restaurant – just a figment of my imagination – and that my weekly exes were imaginary too. I wished I could’ve made four Cosmopolitans after all, and bitched about the boys with my girlfriends, like those lot in Sex and the City, and not have to kill them. But I didn’t have any friends.
All I had was fire in a carrier bag. I kept stomping forwards, each step shortening the distance between me and the gloomy restaurant, each step shortening the lifespan of my doomed ex-lovers an
d me. To get my ears in the mood for a fiery death, I removed the scratched Discman from the bag, and the unscratched Closer case. I paused to put in the headphones. I thought it was suitable to be cremated to the sound of Ian’s mournful baritone – however, when I opened the CD case, I was surprised to find a folded-up letter in place of the disc. It was handwritten in blue biro, in a childlike scrawl I recognised. As I unfolded the letter, my heart throbbed in my throat. It took two sentences to realise I was holding Stevie’s suicide note.
I slipped under the awning of the AUND ETT, protecting myself and the letter from the slight drizzle and the staring eyes of passers-by. I was trembling, fearing the worst. Stevie was finally going to have his revenge. From beyond the grave, Stevie was going to tell me – to my face – I’m the worst thing that ever happened to him.
Sniffling, I began to read, my eyes filling with tears with every passing sentence. The first thing that made me sad about Stevie’s letter was his awefull spelling and punctuation. And then, there were more and more things that made me sad:
dear kimberly. if only i could tell you this in person but my speech is no good is it. i need You to know tho that im in an awefull state and that ive got a terribell pain somewere. so im doing it in words wrighting which im sorry is only just a bit better than the speech. first of all my head has been all over the place Resently if you have notised. i love you but something awefull and shamfull has happend which i do not Really want to tell you but i think you should will understand want you to understand. i hope that you beleive me. it happend after the party at seal sands. do you remember tel and natalie from the club. well we desided to drive out to the sands after the atheletics party with these bottels of wine. we were all of us dead drunk exseppted tel was driveing.
I had a feeling I knew where his words were going. They’ve only gone and killed someone on the roads, after too many bottels of wine. I shook my head in disbelief, then shook the paper again, and read on:
Kimberly's Capital Punishment Page 14