Part 3c) Kimberly the Bacterium
My new mother is a dirty nappy. My new father is a half-eaten meatball. I take it the Buddhist bosses weren’t best pleased with my murderous monkey business. I’ve been reborn a micro-organism.
Once I’m used to my new sensory apparatus (I don’t have eyes, just a meagre touchy-feely membrane, hooked up to my nucleus), I take in my surroundings: I seem to be camping in a huge, black polythene tent, with tons of other bacteria, rotten food, nappies, tissues, and torn packaging. I think it’s a binbag.
I sail across the putrid pond of milky fish stock, on the back of the meatball. All around me, the litter’s stacked high like a dishevelled, dystopian shanty town. The only thing going for the place is the local cuisine. Once I’ve chowed down one square micrometre of the beef, I feel fit to bursting – in fact, I’m so full, my nucleus has no choice but to split in half, transforming me into a pair of identical twins.
‘Ey up,’ we say to each other simultaneously. Now we’ve got twice the appetite, we set to work on the faecal matter in mother’s nappy, greedily guzzling the sweet, sticky nectar.
Three hours later, we’ve got five hundred and ten brothers and sisters, and not much faecal matter or ground beef left. Roundabout the tent, the bacteria and germs soon outnumber the food rations. The pathogens whinge and writhe about like starving refugees, while the flies desperately regurgitate and regobble their breakfasts, over and over again. To make matters worse, a black rat comes along and gnaws a hole in the bag, stealing a hunk of green polka-dotted focaccia and inviting all manner of urban bugs and beasties to gatecrash our paltry banquet.
Before long, there’s a power struggle in the tent. As our rations carry on shrinking, the different strains of bacteria cause a bit of a stink, battling each other, trying to seize control of the binbag. Contrary to what scientists believe, pathogens can communicate with each other freely and easily, via telepathy. Soon, each family of germs is reeling off its own propaganda, trying to assert its authority as ‘the most harmful bacteria in the binbag’. Over by the broken eggshells, the salmonella and shigella lock horns, spouting tales of upset tummies and vomiting. Elsewhere, the E. coli O157:H7 bullies the other, less dangerous strains of Escherichia coli, boasting about ‘severe bloody diarrhoea’, ‘mass hysteria’ and ‘the odd fatality and that’. The most revered and feared of the bacteria, however, is the Yersinia pestis, which rides on the back of the black rat, or Rattus rattus in Latin (so bad they named it twice!). Y. pestis was supposedly responsible for the Black Death in the 1800s, but hasn’t been in the limelight much since then. Pushing its luck, the influenza A H1N1 screams from the peak of a scrumpled-up tissue, ‘Y. pestis, go and infect a fucking wild boar and peacock-gizzard pie, you daft old washed-up has-been!’
I think it’s a joke of some sort.
As the days wear on, and our families perish, no one’s in the mood for jokes any more. The time comes to put our nuclei together and come up with a solution to the starvation. Some of the bacteria swear there’s a restaurant merely metres from the ragged binbag, though it could be a mirage brought on by hunger. According to the folklore of the tent, restaurants can be wonderful feeding and breeding grounds, or they can be perilous, squeaky-clean battlegrounds. The fact the binbags haven’t left the alleyway for collection in five days suggests the restaurant might fall into the former, but it’s a risky business being a bacterium. Land on the wrong work surface and your membrane gets instantly dissolved by citrus-fresh poison. As far as me and my siblings are concerned, we’d rather stay in the warmth of the tent than risk annihilation but, then again, if the food in here dries up completely, we’ll die anyway.
There’s nothing else for it. Over the next few hours, the pathogens hatch plans to get inside the prophesied restaurant: the shigella wants to travel on the tongue of an alleycat; the salmonella suggests we catapult an eggshell; the E. coli fancies waiting for a restaurant worker to turn up; the Yersinia pestis wants to Blitzkrieg the kitchens, on the back of a bluebottle.
The discussions divide the binbag, creating a primitive pecking-order of those who want to leave the tent (and how), and those who want to stay put. Me and my siblings position ourselves somewhere on the fence, adopting the role of lookouts. There’s not much to see through the torn gap in the liner – only a chipped back door, an air vent, and a handful of other binbags – but at least it keeps us out of the arguments. One evening, conditions in the tent get so severe, the black rat keels over with starvation. It hardly has time to let rigor mortis set in before tens of thousands of bacteria pounce on its corpse, fighting and baying for flesh. Staying put by the lookout, me and my siblings refuse to eat. We’re not fucking barbarians and, in any case, we couldn’t stomach another rat steak after what happened at Donald’s. Instead, we rim the edge of the binbag in quiet protest, sucking the last drops of fatty fish sap, while the greedy bacteria gobble and burp behind us.
While there’s some pride in being conscientious objectors – going on hunger strike instead of feasting on our rat friend – there’s a good chance we’ll be dead before sundown. Forty minutes later, when the back door of the restaurant creaks open – illuminating the binbags with the brightest, whitest, nicest, lightest light we might’ve ever seen – we’re convinced we’ve died and gone to Heaven. However, when we spot the portly restaurant worker emerging from the light, our nuclei instantly spring back to life.
‘Restaurant worker!’ we shriek, wobbling the walls of the tent, excitedly. ‘Restaurant wor—’
We freeze, mid-sentence, when we see who it is. The restaurant worker appears to be a giant version of Paolo, only with bleached blond highlights and a slightly rounder gut. Of all the binbags outside all the restaurants in all the capital cities of the world, we had to wake up in Paolo’s. The thought of rotting osso buco and tofu ravioli flashes through our membranes. Glowing, we watch Paolo tying up the neighbouring binbags, then chucking them one by one down the alley, ready for collection.
Meanwhile, in the belly of the bag, some of the less harmful bacteria are becoming flustered, clamouring for a glimpse of their blond Italian saviour. Others – like the Y. pestis and salmonella – look on indignantly, too bloated and knackered from the rat-race to bother moving. To make space for the crowds, me and my siblings shimmy to the very edge of the torn polythene, getting a good whiff of dead meat from the kitchens. You can almost smell table 13 from here!
As Paolo trudges towards us, another wave of bacteria comes rushing to the lookout, pushing and shoving and belching. Everyone leaps kamikaze-like out of the hole as Paolo takes hold of the frayed lips, pulling them together and knotting them in one swift motion. Some of our cells get crushed in the knot, while others are thrown back into the dark depths of the tent. The rest of us have no choice but to leap onto Paolo’s fingers. Geronimooooooo! Diving into the greasy trenches of Paolo’s fingerprints, me and thirty-one lucky brothers and sisters cling for dear life as Paolo rubs his hands vigorously on his apron. From so high up, it’s disheartening to see our friends and family being tossed into the gutter and treated like rubbish, but then there’s elation as well, as Paolo carries us onwards, into the Ristorante di Fantasia.
It’s strange being back in our old workplace, one micrometre tall. The kitchens look the same as always, only with more pictures of Paolo’s wife (dressed as herself now, not Marilyn) Blutacked to the tiles, and fifty perfect squares of ravioli set out on the worktop, ready to be filled with dead reindeer.
As Paolo clomps across the lino, we keep an eye on the handgun loaded with Flash Multi-Purpose by the sink. Fortunately for us (unfortunately for his customers), Paolo ignores the NOW WASH YOUR HANDS sign and the Flash, and gets on with making his ravioli. With a delicate attention to detail, he fills the parcels with a mixture of ground-up venison, chopped onion, mascarpone cheese, garlic, parsley, seasoning, and bacteria. Twenty-four of us are pressed into the first parcel, leaving the rest of us to spread across the plastic chopping board and worktop.
Watched over by Paolo’s framed, faded photographs of Rome, we act out a Roman orgy in miniature: writhing against each other; decapitating nuclei; gorging ourselves on the muck down the back of the cooker, where the Flash and J-cloths miss. Soon, there’s sixteen of us, then thirty-two again, then sixty-four, all within the space of an hour.
Before long, there’s nearly fifteen thousand of us. Like a hard-working, foul-smelling army, we quickly colonise the melamine and surround another batch of defrosting venison in pincer formation. At the end of the night, Paolo chases us halfheartedly round the kitchen with a dirty dishcloth, but it’s a feeble counter-attack. Once the lights go out, there’s nothing to stop us dominating the dining area next-door. We march across the threshold, some of us doing the goosestep, while others go for more of a jaunty conga-line, shimmying across the mosaic tiles. And, despite Paolo’s best efforts with the mop hours earlier, we carry on chewing the fat, squirming, undressing, reproducing, dancing on the tabletops, and sweating out toxins throughout the night – and we keep on multiplying …
Two weeks later, the Ristorante di Fantasia has been shut down. The tables and chairs look like tombstones; the cupboards and fridge-freezer have been ransacked; and the Mediterranean curtains are kept permanently shut, leaving me and my 250,000,000 brothers and sisters to run the place in peace.
For some reason, the regulars at the Ristorante weren’t impressed with our revolutionary prowess, going back to their homes each night to be sick and shit blood. Their distaste led to a headline in Tuesday’s Tottenham, Wood Green & Edmonton Journal, which read: FOOD POISONING OUTBREAK IN SOUTH T’HAM RESTAURANT.
We swear it wasn’t our intention to poison anyone. We always thought we were friendly bacteria, like the type you find in Müller Vitality yogurts or Actimel, or the type that’s crawling around your guts right now.
It seems a bit unfair, two days after the ‘outbreak’, when five environmental health officials storm the Ristorante di Fantasia armed with facemasks, spacesuits, disinfectant canisters and scouring pads. Rather than bursting in like federal agents or vigilantes, the health and safety warriors plod slowly round the restaurant for twenty minutes, pervily stroking the worktops with cotton buds instead of going at them with sledgehammers. The lucky bacteria are those who manage to grab on to the cotton buds and are rehoused in the safety of a Petri dish, while the rest of us face a deadly thunderstorm of bleach.
Suddenly, it’s every bacterium for itself! Starting in the kitchens, the environmental health people smoke us out with a series of disinfectant blasts, quickly finding my hideout in the gap behind the cooker. Then, they pulverise us with scouring pads and mops, causing a fizzy holocaust on the lemon-fresh lino. Just to be on the safe side, the tables and chairs get the same treatment, then get taken outside to be quarantined before incineration.
It’s sad to see the fall of the Ristorante di Fantasia. I might not have enjoyed my time there as a human, but the last week or so as bacteria has been euphoric. One of the many good things about bacteria is everyone in your family feels equal, born as they are from each other’s split nuclei. While humans tend to argue with people who remind them too much of themselves, there’s no point in rivalry when you’re an exact replica of your brothers and sisters. There’s no hierarchy, and there’s no room for betrayal. We’re all in it together!
As another wave of Dettol bites into my delicate membrane, I do feel bad about the food poisoning. However, it’s not all doom and gloom, as we’re splashed with one last blast of disinfectant, turning our insides out. I quite fancy my chances of being reborn as something spectacular. After all, it’s not like I’ve murdered anyone this time.
I cross my flagella, ignoring today’s Journal headline, just about visible through a crack in the back door: DEADLY E. COLI O157:H7 CLAIMS FIRST VICTIM IN SOUTH T’HAM.
I’m sure it’s referring to one of my brothers or sisters, not me.
Part 3d) Kimberly the Common Seal
Is this a fucking joke? Before I have time to develop a fondness for athletes’ bottoms, I let go of Mother’s full-fat, creamy teat and launch myself off the rocks. I accidentally-on-purpose catch my neck in a ring of four-pack plastic, honking ‘OM ĀH HŪM! OM ĀH HŪM!’ as my little white face turns blue.
Part 3e) Kimberly the Greyhound
Once again, I wake up in litter. This time, it’s in a litter of puppies, in a splendid conservatory in West Hampstead.
It’s giving me travel sickness, all these reincarnations. On my soul’s arrival into a new species, there’s always initial confusion as to what I’ve turned into, especially since most animal spawn starts out life blind, deaf and dumb. For all I know, I could be a pinky, hanging above the jaws of an okeetee corn snake. For all I know, I could be a decorated demigod, turning the golden key to Nirvana.
As it turns out, I’m a dog. Once I’ve got fully functioning body parts, I spend my days charging up and down the lawn with my two brothers and two sisters, grinning, growling, being patted, and fed top-of-the-range, organic dog food. For the first time in my lives, I’ve been born into money.
Household pets are the luckiest folk on the planet. Not only do they have two sets of parents (human and dog, in my case), they have free food, free healthcare, and three-piece suites to sleep on. My human mother, Mrs Claymore, is a soft touch. She made her fortune breeding and training greyhounds for racing, and there’s nothing she likes better than pampering new puppies. Even when me and the other pups go out for walkies and I tangle the reins, Mrs Claymore’s still patient with me.
I’m not the sharpest greyhound in the pack, and definitely not the fastest. Once Mrs Claymore starts taking us down the training track, I make it clear I want no part of the racing lifestyle. I much prefer prancing leisurely round the local rec, than chasing the clenched arseholes of my brothers and sisters. While my four siblings go on to compete at Wimbledon and Romford, I stay at home most nights, competing with the Claymores’ cats for scraps off the dinner table, and pats off our parents. I make friends with a pouffe in Mr Claymore’s study, spending hours curled on its plump paisley, contemplating the wallpaper.
After everything I’ve been through, I think I deserve a few months of decadence. Soon, Mrs Claymore gives up on me completely, leaving me to snooze on the pouffe while the others are slammed in the back of the Land Rover and taken to the training track. I feel more like the Kimberly of days of yore, lounging about the house while my companions charge round a racetrack, although, instead of tuna and cucumber sarnies and Somerfield’s Worst™ Lasagnes-for-One, I get my black lips round posh Bakers biscuits and Mr Claymore’s Somerfield’s Best™ Lasagnes-for-One.
Mr Claymore, like his wife, is a pushover. It only takes half a glance and a slight whine to make him scrape his dinner into my doggy-bowl. I feel like royalty, with a balding, turtle-necked butler and a paisley throne. Soon, I’m hardly even fussed about going for my walkies. The last thing I want is to risk being involved in another car crash, or accidentally behead a bird, and be reborn a muddy puddle or a piece of cat litter.
Mr Claymore doesn’t seem to mind leaving me on the pouffe, since he’s got a jippy back and hates plastic-bagging dogmuck. Also, both his big toes kill at the moment – I accidentally knocked a paperweight off his desk and onto his slippers, both of which he was wearing at the time. It made him howl at the moon-like lampshades.
Soon, I get the feeling I’m not in the Claymores’ good books. I get those slippers slapped round my arse every morning, to wake me up. Despite having a fast greyhound metabolism, I’ve grown fat around my belly and joints, making me look more like a donkey than a streamlined stallion. Mrs Claymore scolds me, then scolds Mr Claymore (who is also getting fat), and takes matters into her own hands. Each morning, she makes me do laps of the garden, before we power-walk down Sumatra Road to collect The Times. I lag behind, purposefully annoying her, sniffing each lamppost for ammonia, imagining Mr Claymore struggling with his fried breakfast back at home.
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nbsp; While my brothers and sisters prance around the house, showing off their ribs and rosettes, I carry on the royalty act without truce. Come January, I’ve ballooned to the size of a Tibetan mastiff. At a loss, Mrs Claymore tries starving me of the Bakers biscuits, and flogging me down the rec three times a day, but it’s no use. With no food in me, I’ve got no motivation to sprint about – not even when I catch the scent of another dog’s bollocks on the breeze. Instead, I just sniff sadly round the wet lampposts, while Mrs Claymore tugs fiercely on the leash, making me strangle-stumble.
One morning, back on the safety of the paisley, I overhear Mr and Mrs Claymore having a dispute:
‘She’s a waste of space. She needs bloody putting down or something.’
‘Ah, she’s alright.’
‘We could put her up, you know.’
‘Hmm?’
‘For adoption, I mean.’
‘Oh. Well, I don’t know if w—’
‘The Trust would have her. She doesn’t need to be retired.’
‘Mm.’
My congested heart sinks. In the other room, I hear Mrs Claymore making a few phone calls, catching the words ‘overweight’, ‘lethargic’, ‘very affectionate though, oh yes, yes’, and that one, ‘adoption’, again. I lever myself off the pouffe, suddenly inspired to pace about, anxiously. My dogbrain races, wishing I had some say in the matter. I don’t want to leave the lap of luxury. I wish there was some way of saying sorry, without resorting to blinking puppy-dog eyes. I wish I could somehow pay them back for all their generosity.
One downside to being a household pet is you don’t speak your owners’ lingo, and you don’t have access to any money. If only I could prove my worth to the Claymores – say, by retrieving a lost World Cup trophy, or unearthing more riches for them – they might want to keep me. I sink back down on the pouffe, racking my brains, desperately trying to think where a hound might come across a handsome sum of money.
Kimberly's Capital Punishment Page 29