Kimberly's Capital Punishment

by Richard Milward

  I blinked, staring out across the cold, hollow void of the sea.

  ‘Er, yeah, go on then,’ I replied.

  Walking into the Wethouse was like dropping a pint of strong lager over a first edition of Charles Dickens’s Oliver Twist, and then slamming it shut on your own face. My belly was twisted with nerves as I pushed open the front door. The exterior of the building was sooty and imposing, like a Victorian poorhouse or haunted castle, set against the bright fabric shops and the chiffon sky. Inside, the place was much lighter and sterile – more like a school canteen or gymnasium. The walls were plastered with adverts for day centres, addiction clinics and MISSING PERSONS posters; then, further down, the walls were bare where some of the MISSING PERSONS posters must’ve gone missing.

  I smiled as wide and cheery as possible at the man with pink eyeballs peeping out from behind the front desk. He seemed weary from too many years dealing with unbearable drunks and overzealous volunteers, and he told me to sign my name, then pushed me off to a small office down a tangerine corridor.

  In the office, I found Malcolm’s dad balling up a pair of dirty Marigolds. It turned out he’d been clearing up excrement all morning, because I was late. I apologised, with another wide and cheery smile. My lateness was down to me pacing round the green three or four times – plucking up the courage to enter the place – though I blamed it on the Ghost Train: that perfect, catch-all excuse for Capital lateness and laziness. I even went so far as to call it ‘the bloody Ghost Train’.

  ‘No worries, love,’ Malcolm’s dad mumbled, rinsing his hands. It was strange, seeing him outside the Ristorante, on his home turf. At Paolo’s, Malcolm’s dad came across as a gloomy, antisocial chap; here, he was in his element: rushing about, fingering paperwork, slanging down the telephone, scratching his head.

  ‘Right, love, shall I show you round?’ he asked, leading me back out into the corridor. ‘Nice easy start today, eh? Introduce you to a few of our residents. But then tomorrow it’ll be your call to clean the dorms … you know, er, keep the communal areas tidy, housekeeping, take the gang out on the odd day trip, et cetera et cetera …’

  As Malcolm’s dad led me around the Wethouse, he kept confusing me with his jargon. For the whole length of the tangerine corridor, he babbled about ‘key working’ and ‘life mapping’, which I think had something to do with making the residents feel happy, and making sure they didn’t die. I couldn’t imagine the ‘gang’ took kindly to the jargon – the last thing you want when you’re tanked up is a bald, righteous person patronising you.

  The idea of it being a wet hostel was daunting, although it made sense not to force the residents to go cold turkey in exchange for a bed. Instead, the idea was to wean them off the stronger gut-rot ales and ciders, and help them realise they’ve got a boundless, precious life ahead, and ‘give the gang their dignity back’, Malcolm’s dad added.

  I wondered where Malcolm was. In the doorways of the dormitories, strange eyes peeked at me. The male eyes seemed to roll excitedly at the prospect of a new female volunteer, while the female eyes squinted at me suspiciously. I was glad I’d worn my most unflattering rollneck.

  ‘The gang have the opportunity to earn a bit of moolah while they’re here, through odd jobs and the like – washing windows, et cetera et cetera … although it usually gets spent down the off-licence,’ Malcolm’s dad explained, with a face like a pained mother. ‘But we’re not here to judge.’

  As he led me further down the corridor, Malcolm’s dad introduced me to some members of ‘the gang’. They didn’t seem like a bad bunch: Exclamation Mark was a youngish bloke from the West Country who had a habit of stating the obvious. As I brushed past him he exclaimed, ‘You’ve got a straight old fringe!’ then burst into hysterics and fell against the wall. I smirked politely. Lurking by the ladies, the Moaner Lisa was grumbling into a can of Strongbow. From twenty yards away, Malcolm’s dad called at her, ‘How you diddling, Lisa, love? Chin up, dear.’ That just set her off even more, though.

  The Wethouse was a lot different to the Ristorante di Fantasia. Instead of fresh ciabatta and balsamic vinegar, wafts of disinfectant and sock-vinegar came sailing round the corridors with us. The Wethouse wasn’t bad, though – it was more like a cheap, eccentric hotel than a prison. The residents were free to wander about the place as they pleased, and they could even go out strolling the Bush, providing they were back by 9 p.m.

  ‘They forfeit their bed if they’re not back in time,’ Malcolm’s dad explained solemnly.

  ‘Die!’ one of the female slatherers hissed at us, as we slipped past the last dormitory. My heart pounded. For a second, a sharp sense of déjà vu flashed in my head, like a comet appearing and disappearing in one millisecond, just before you’ve had time to grab for your telescope.

  ‘Now, now, Kimberley,’ Malcolm’s dad hushed, referring to the slatherer, not me. I stiffened, glancing through the gap in the door at my namesake. It was like looking into a dirty mirror. Kimberley Clarke was a similar build to me but, instead of a Guillotine, she had a ponytail that looked more like a noose. Instead of turquoise eyeshadow, she had black and blue bags under her eyes. And, in place of the rollneck, she had on a baggy blue Nike sweater, and scuffed jeans. I smiled sweetly at her, despite having just been told to die.

  ‘Die,’ Kimberley grunted again, leering at me.

  ‘Now, now, Kimberley. Look, meet Kimberly. She’s going to be working here from tomorrow …’ Malcolm’s dad announced, then he whispered in my ear, ‘Don’t worry, love, she says “Die” to everyone. She’s a bit … wrong in the head. Don’t take it personal.’

  I smiled, but it was hard keeping the smile fixed, what with my cheeks twitching so much.

  ‘Good to meet you,’ I ventured, clinging to the doorframe. I didn’t think a handshake or an air-kiss was appropriate.

  ‘Good to meet you,’ Kimberley spat, wriggling on her bedcovers.

  Malcolm’s dad brought his prickly lips to my ear again and sighed, ‘Oh, Kimberley does have a habit of repeating everything. Just, er … ignore it, if you can.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Alright, well, cheerio, Kimberley,’ I said, walking backwards.

  ‘Alright, well, cheerio,’ Kimberley hissed. ‘Has anyone ever told you, love, you look like the spawn of a necrophiliac?’

  ‘Er, no,’ I replied.

  ‘Behave, Kimberley. We’ll see you in a bit,’ Malcolm’s dad said, closing her door gently behind us.

  ‘Die,’ Kimberley muttered as it creaked shut.

  I felt sick as we traipsed off towards the communal area, or ‘TV lounge’, as it liked to be called. Malcolm’s dad touched my back as we sat down at one of the plastic tables by the window. He seemed impressed with my handling of Kimberley, and I wondered if she was just an actress, put there to test me on my first day. Her skin was so pale, she seemed almost like an apparition.

  ‘Why does she say “Die” all the time, then?’ I asked Malcolm’s dad later on, over a polystyrene cup of Nescafé.

  ‘Oh,’ he laughed, ‘she’s alright, that Kimberley. She doesn’t mean nothing. She’s just a bit, well, she’s depressed. She got diagnosed with this DID, dissociative identity disorder thing. Like a multiple personality disorder. Sometimes she calls herself Anastasia. I don’t know – I think she’s had a tough life: she was adopted, bad parenting, etcetera. We don’t like to ask, though – we just like to … try and give answers. Hope, and solutions. I think, well, I think she just wants someone to put her out of her misery … but it’s our job to put Kimberley’s misery out of its misery … ha ha.’

  I nodded, burning my top lip on the edge of the cup. I stared out of the window, at next door’s red brick wall, turning redder and redder as the sun came out.

  ‘See, Kimberley can be a handful,’ Malcolm’s dad said, bringing his face closer to mine again. ‘She can be nasty, suicidal, she can be murderous, she’ll push you to the edge … but she’s still one of us. Remember that.’

  I
nodded again, my face also reddening. I knew Malcolm’s dad was saying the word ‘Kimberley’, but he could’ve just as well been saying ‘Kimberly’. I sucked out the last of the muddy coffee, wondering what the hell I was letting myself in for.

  ‘Let’s just make sure Kimberley doesn’t die, eh?’ Malcolm’s dad added with a smirk.

  I couldn’t agree more.

  For the next few weeks, I suffered from a terminal illness: the Cockfosters blues. The sky-blue line was off for planned engineering works, so I had to suffer the slower dark blue line to get home each night from the Wethouse, breathing in all the germs and seminal fluids of the Love Train for three minutes and three stops more than necessary.

  I spent most mornings with my head down the Wethouse toilets, continually throwing up and cleaning up after the gang. I felt like my skull had been replaced with a pillowcase full of cymbals, clashing about every time I moved. My nose dripped green mucus while the Kimberly-Clarks dripped pink handwash, in a never-ending battle to rid my body of bacteria.

  Despite all the new illnesses, the job was going alright. It was harder work than the Ristorante, even though a lot of it involved sitting in the TV lounge with the residents, or making cups of tea, or sailing down the Thames with them in a catamaran. I’d made a few friends already – Exclamation Mark was already exclaiming his love for me, and the Moaner Lisa regularly used my shoulder to cry, or nod off, on – but I’d made a few enemies as well. Kimberley Clarke, notably, or the fiery fellows who appear to have finished their drinks, then kick off at me for putting them in the bin for them. It was difficult managing a hotel full of drunks – all of them in different stages of inebriation, tetchiness, horn, and nausea. Again, the trick was to be as nice as humanly possible; trying to earn the respect of the residents; all the while, not letting them walk all over me.

  On the last Monday in August – a Bank Holiday – I wasted the afternoon sheltering under an Out of Service bus stop, staring at myself in the puddles. I thought I was safe leaving the flat without the scarlet raincoat, but no sooner had I reached the peak of Stamford Hill than the heavens tore open. I was still suffering from city malaise, so I snuck under the first suitable shelter, waiting for an imaginary bus, or for the rain to stop – whichever came first.

  I hardly recognised myself in the wobbling water. Flu has a habit of making you feel detached and unattractive – so too does no make-up. In fact, everything around me looked grey and miserable that afternoon – from the crooked paving slabs in front of me to the glistening wet, phallic skyscrapers of the City-within-a-city, way out east.

  I wanted the imaginary bus to turn up and take me away from the Capital. I watched planes sail through the puddles, and I wished I was on them.

  Many people come to the Capital to ‘find themselves’ but, in fact, the Capital steals your identity, over time: first, it messes with your dress sense, then it softens your accent, then it sours your sense of humour, then, before you know it, your whole personality’s been pulverised. In the reflections, the ripples made me look elderly. I let more planes, birds, clouds and cars become intermingled with my fluctuating facial features until, suddenly, a Hi-Tech trainer and snakeskin loafer stamped me out completely.

  ‘Hello, missus, my name is Donald. I’m not on drugs, I don’t drink – I just need one ninety-nine for a cheeseburger and chips,’ said a voice.

  I hoped Donald wouldn’t recognise me without my make-up on. For the first time since meeting him, I didn’t have any money for him. Unlike the Ristorante di Fantasia, the wage at the Wethouse was barely enough to pay my rent and travel, and the only tips I got were ‘get your rat out’, ‘sort your hair out’, or ‘get off the cans’. Not only that, but the six direct debits I still had set up to charities were taking their toll on my savings, and I didn’t fancy cancelling them and facing another call-centre jobsworth/eternal damnation.

  ‘Angel!’ Donald spluttered, recognising me anyway.

  ‘Donald. How are you?’ I asked, more nasal than usual.

  ‘Dying, dying, dying for a drink. Know what I mean?’

  I knew what he meant. Donald wanted me to spoil him with Warzones again, but I had to muster up apologetic eyes, and say, ‘Ahh, Don. I’m skint myself.’

  ‘Just some cans?’

  ‘I’m dead sorry. I lost that job, at the Italian place,’ I said, patting where my pockets would’ve been, had I been wearing the raincoat.

  ‘Just one can?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I just … I’ve got nowt on me … and the banks aren’t open, and …’ I trailed off, feeling terrible. I wondered if my powers as a nice human being were faltering, or whether the people around me were just getting greedier and needier, and asking too much of me. The curse of the financially unsound philanthropist.

  Donald looked to the ground. I felt the Devil whipping me invisibly from across the street. I had my Maestro card in my purse and £1,245.93 in my account, but I also had several bills magnetised to my fridge, and not much food inside it. I could’ve snuck into an off-licence and slipped a case of Warzone under my raincoat, but I didn’t think that’d be very nice on the shopkeeper. And I wasn’t wearing the raincoat.

  ‘If there’s anything else I can do, I’ll help,’ I said, shivering, despite the humidity. ‘Anything you want.’

  In the puddles, I saw fifteen thousand twitching Donalds.

  ‘There is one thing,’ he mumbled.

  While Donald was in the shower, I made a cup of Best-in and stared at the carpet. As the coffee hit the bottom of my belly, I suffered convulsions. I could hear Donald humming while he cleaned himself, with the faulty showerhead penny-whistling in accompaniment. I could also hear him squirting out all my magic bottles of gel, shampoo and the Japanese Spa shower cream. I imagined fifty-odd years of dirt running off his body like black tar. I imagined myself scrubbing away his scum-line.

  When I heard the taps go off, I kneeled back on the bed and took off my clothes. It was warm in the bedroom, but I still looked like a frozen prawn in a wig. I waited silently for Donald.

  It was a relief to hear him brushing his teeth, though I made a mental note to buy a new toothbrush once the ordeal was over. After three minutes of brushing, I heard Donald rubbing himself dry with the Tigger towel, which I’d been planning on chucking out anyway. I unsnapped my bra and pulled down my knickers.

  I was hiding under the gingham bedcovers when Donald finally emerged, sporting a semi-erect penis. He must’ve been fluffing himself in the bathroom. I smiled halfheartedly. Donald’s naked body looked like two pairs of crutches and a xylophone wrapped in cellophane. Despite all the scrubbing in the shower, he still looked filthy, as if the grime of the Capital had congealed over his flesh, creating a brand-new, greyish/yellowish skin. When Donald came over to sit on the bed, I noticed his permablack fingertips and toetips, and the red and white smegma wounds round his foreskin. A spoonful of vomit leapt up and down my throat.

  ‘And we definitely can’t kiss?’ Donald enquired, showing off his scurvy.

  ‘Aw, sorry, no. And, like, I was going to say …’ I started, desperately racking my brains for a get-out clause, ‘it might sound weird, but I’ve got this fetish thing. If we’re going to have … sex … we’ve got to do it through plastic. It’s like a hygiene thing. Like a fetish.’

  Donald’s heart and semi-on shrivelled slightly, although he still seemed up for it. Beggars cannot be choosers.

  I switched off the lamp, then hopped self-consciously out of bed and scampered to the bathroom. I unclipped the wet, still bubbling shower curtain from the rail, gave it a shake and dragged it back through to the dark bedroom. Two bloodshot eyeballs followed me as I rummaged, flustered, round the flat for a pair of Marigolds, and scissors. I cut a hole in the middle of the shower curtain, with a diameter of about three inches. Then, I pulled on the yellow Marigolds and threw Donald a blue, hypochondriac-proof ‘extra safe’ condom.

  At first, Donald had trouble rolling the johnny onto his dangling member, s
o I lathered up the Marigolds with Vaseline, and mechanically wanked him for a minute or so. As he got stiff, I could feel the skin cracking round the smegma wounds. Nevertheless, he seemed to be having a good time, blowing out hot, pungent ‘Uh, uh, uh’s.

  Once Donald was fully erect, I lay back on the bedcovers and laid the shower curtain over myself from head to toe, lining the hole up with my terrified vagina. The poor thing looked startled, as Donald inserted himself hastily through both holes, without even pausing to unstick my lips. I grunted. On my side of the curtain, I tried to work a bit of Vaseline into the danger area, but it just ended up getting matted in our hairs.

  For a while, Donald kept his eyes shut, now and then pressing his face where the sheet was stuck to my lips and tits. Soon, the shower curtain was coated on both sides with sweat and saliva, sliding this way and that while Donald thrusted clumsily. I tried to anaesthetise myself, counting the swirls of Artex on the ceiling, but they were blurry swirls. Whenever I inhaled, I caught a whiff of the Japanese Spa shower cream – I tried to focus on that sweet stench, again imagining myself as a high-class Japanese geisha, rather than a rubber-gloved tramp-skank. But it didn’t last.

  Another sickly sense of déjà vu flashed in my head. Pressed against the oversized piece of plastic, with all his facial wounds and rotten meat, Donald reminded me of Meaty Stevie. I swallowed down another spoonful of vomit, then spun myself onto my haunches, and buried my head into the pillows. I couldn’t watch. I shuddered while he kept bucking me, repeating to myself, silently, ‘I’m a wonderful, selfless human … I’m a wonderful, selfless human …’

  ‘Stop wriggling,’ Donald urged. It was hard to hear through the sheet, but I could’ve sworn he said next, ‘I wish you were dead.’

  It turned out Donald had a fetish, too. But no talent in pillow talk.

  I made a wet circle in the centre of my pillow, drooling, desperate for it to end. I tried to count the individual stitches in the blue and white fabric, while Donald carried on carving holes through me. At one point, he accidentally-on-purpose drilled through my arsehole.