by David Bowker
“So you admit it!”
“It was meant as a compliment.”
“That’s not what Andy Wallace told me.”
“Andy Wallace is a simpleton. When I called you Madeline, it was a reference to your strongly developed feminine side.”
Before I could protest, my dad came over to tell us both a joke. It was the one about the echo. (I’d heard it before.) My attention wandered to the bank, and I noticed a gray-haired man sitting alone on a bench, staring straight ahead and sobbing as we glided past. Something about his appearance seemed unsettlingly familiar, as if I were seeing an apparition of myself in forty years’ time.
* * *
FOR THE first time in our lives, Caro and I borrowed money we would actually be able to repay. We spent three weeks in Europe. It was our first holiday together. We visited Florence, where we saw Michelangelo’s David glaring at the Medicis to distract attention from his uncommonly small penis. Then on to Venice, where we searched in vain for female dwarfs in scarlet duffel coats. We passed our time sightseeing, eating, and screwing, splendidly drunk on fuck-the-world elation.
The last week was spent at Euro Disney. It was Caro’s idea, not mine. Frankly, it didn’t matter to me where we were. That holiday was the highlight of our entire lives and possibly the only time either of us had ever been truly happy.
When we got back, I logged on to my old Web site to sort through the countless complaints from customers who’d ordered books and not received them. I’d posted a personal announcement on the Web site, stating that my business had been razed to the ground and that anyone who’d purchased an item that no longer existed would be fully refunded, but I was still getting abuse from people who hadn’t read the message and thought I was the laziest bookseller in the universe.
Among these loving epistles was an e-mail from someone at Hotmail who called himself Guy Montag. As soon as I opened it, I saw it was another blaze of goodwill from my anonymous hater.
You are such a pathetic excuse for a man. Do you really think she loves you? Do you really think she wants your miserable, undersized cock in her face? She will use you and discard you but you deserve it because you are too weak and pitiful
I stopped reading, partly because I didn’t want these sick ramblings in my head, but mainly because I’d remembered that Guy Montag was the hero of Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, a futuristic fireman whose full-time occupation is burning books.
* * *
WE’D DECIDED to be careful with our money. Having sampled dire poverty, we had no desire to go back there. But Caro had to allow herself one luxury. She went out and bought herself a secondhand BMW Sportster like the one that had been repossessed. Her present to me, to my astonishment, was a fine copy of “Casino Royale.”
“How did you get this?”
“It’s yours. I stole it from your shop just before the fire,” admitted Caro coyly. “But aren’t you glad that I did?”
* * *
CARO REFUSED to move into Gordon’s house. She felt that everything her father had touched was cursed and infected. She was physically unable to sit in a chair that he had occupied, and the mere thought of his underpants could launch her into hysterics.
It therefore goes without saying that she had no desire to keep her father’s ashes. As a joke, she offered them to Eileen. Neither one of us was particularly surprised when Eileen turned them down. The vulgar woman hadn’t really wanted Gordon in his original state, so what possible appeal could the incinerated version hold for her? As a conciliatory gesture, Caro called Eileen to the house, inviting her to help herself to a memento, any object that reminded her of Gordon. Eileen chose the Sony plasma-screen television.
“So that reminds you of my dad, does it?” said Caro cynically.
“Why not?” said Eileen. “He spent enough time watching it.”
“You couldn’t find anything worth less than four and a half thousand quid that was vaguely reminiscent of him?”
“Your father, young lady, was about to share all his wordly goods with me,” said Eileen. “He would not have begrudged me a television set.”
I gave Caro a look, and she appeared to relent. Eileen’s son walked in to take the TV away. He was slightly younger than me, but pudgy with a bright pink face. I couldn’t help thinking he found the situation embarrassing. He tried to lift the television, but it was too heavy. I had to help him carry it out to a van parked in the drive.
Eileen stood in the porch, watching us struggling. I heard her say to Caro, “I suppose you’ve got what you want now?”
“I can’t complain,” said Caro.
“Yes, it all seems to have worked out very convenient for you,” continued Eileen. “Some would say almost too convenient.”
“Firstly,” retorted Caro, “the word you’re searching for is ‘conveniently.’ And secondly, Mark, bring back that telly!”
“Caro, let it go,” I said.
“No!” Caro sprinted down the drive, and while Mr. Pink Boy and I were lifting the Sony into the back of the van, she launched a roundhouse kick that Lenny could not have bettered and put her foot through the TV screen.
CHAPTER 9
HI, INFIDELITY
THE WEEKS passed, but there was still no sign of Caro’s riches. It was a stressful time for us, suspended as we were between outrageous wish fulfillment and the crippling possibility that our life was about to turn into an Ealing comedy. (Mark and Caro are forced to embark on a new killing spree when Caroline’s solicitor discovers that she is adopted and that the Caroline Sewell referred to in the will is actually Gordon’s first daughter, the illegitimate heir to his millions.)
Caro’s bank manager, all smiles, had offered her a generous overdraft. But she didn’t want the bank’s money. She wanted her own.
Most days, we walked in Kew Gardens, talking about all the things we were going to do with our wealth. It was my plan to behave like the reformed Scrooge, giving my brother and my parents ten thousand each. Caro thought this was a bad idea. “Whatever you give them won’t be enough. If you give them ten thousand and they know you’ve got a million, they’ll still think you’re a mean bastard.”
* * *
ON THE evening of my class with Lenny, I placed the Kimber handgun at the bottom of my rucksack and covered it with my karate suit. At the door, I kissed Caro good-bye. Five minutes later, I returned to the flat.
“What’s the matter?” she said, her face noticeably paler than usual.
“I don’t know whether I can be bothered with all this self-defense shit anymore. We’ll soon be able to hire a bodyguard.”
“No, you’ve got to learn how to look after yourself.” Caro virtually pushed me out of the door. “I want you to protect me.”
“So you’re saying I’ve got to go?”
“It’s for your own good.”
I knew then that something was wrong.
At the noisy, yobby pub next to Kew station, I bought a horrible warm pint of bitter and drank it at a table outside, my breath turning to mist in the cold. After ten minutes of refrigerating my sphincter, I decided I was being paranoid and caught the next train to Hammersmith. I got off at Baron’s Court, meaning to walk to Hammersmith. Instead, I switched platforms and caught the next train back to Kew.
It was only a ten-minute walk from the station to Caro’s flat, but I made it last longer by walking as slowly as I could. I reached the house to find a pastel blue Porsche with a familiar registration plate parked in the drive. Trembling, I unlocked the front door and stepped into the nasty communal hall. I could smell fried garlic.
Opposite me stood the door to the ground-floor flat, silent and dark, permanently unoccupied. The landlady preserved it as a shrine to her son, who once owned the entire house but died tragically young.
A supernaturally well behaved New Zealand couple occupied the top floor. The only time we were aware of their presence was at weekends, when they acted as hosts to an endless trail of backpacker Kiwis in search of free a
ccommodation.
The smell of garlic emanated from Caro’s flat. I climbed the stairs and turned my key in the lock. The door to Caro’s flat didn’t open. It was bolted on the inside. I hammered on the door with my fist, shouting Caro’s name. “Is that fucking biblical bastard in there with you?”
After a few minutes, I heard Caro’s voice. “Mark, go away. Please.”
“You’re my wife,” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to keep us alive.”
“You’re fucking him. You are, aren’t you? Answer me!” I punched and kicked the door, but it held fast. “You’re my wife, you fucking bitch!”
On the other side of the door, Caro pleaded with me. “Mark. Please. Don’t make it worse than it already is.”
I was about to ask her how it could be worse when I remembered the gun. I rushed down the stairs and out of the front door.
A narrow passage ran alongside the house, ending in a gate that led to the back garden. I passed through the gate and stood among the rank, overgrown weeds. A light shone in our bedroom window. Almost vomiting with jealousy, I took the Kimber out of my bag and aimed it at the window. I didn’t hear the first shot because a plane was flying over, its landing lights as big as saucers. The second shot hit one of the windowpanes, blasting an enormous jagged hole through the glass. Dread filled me at the thought that I might have hurt Caro. I stopped firing.
After about five minutes, the gate creaked softly. Something pale and vaguely luminous drifted into sight, and I heard a man’s voice. “Killer?”
It was Jesus.
“What?” I said.
“Are you all right?” He sounded friendly, almost gentle.
Gentle Jesus.
As he drew closer, he held up his hands. “Listen, if you want to shoot me, you better do it. But I’d rather you heard what I have to say. Okay?”
I didn’t answer. It was dark, and he couldn’t possibly have seen the expression on my face or where the gun was pointing. But, exhibiting the kind of wild courage that had established his reputation, he walked straight over to me and placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Listen, man,” he said quietly. “It seems I owe you an apology. Until just now, I didn’t even know you and Caro got married. I mean, she never told me. She doesn’t wear a ring or anything. I thought you were just another punk, one of the hundreds of thousands of filthy punks who chase her pussy every day. When I sent those guys to bat you around, I just didn’t appreciate what was going down between you and her.”
“So you admit it, then? You tried to cripple me?”
“Well, how was I to know you were the most important thing in her life? Anyway, it backfired. My boys were the ones who got crippled. What have you got to be pissed about?”
“You’ve been fucking my wife.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I bet your heart bleeds for me.”
“No,” said Bad Jesus, letting his hand fall to his side. “It doesn’t bleed for anyone. But I care about marriage, all right? I was married once. My wife screwed another guy when my little boy was in the house, so I know how that feels. I know the pain you’re feeling. So come on. Let’s go for a spin.”
“What?”
“Have you ever been in a Porsche before? Let’s just go for a ride. We can talk as we drive along. And you won’t be needing this. Don’t you know these things are dangerous?”
Jesus took the gun from my hand. Nearby was a dilapidated garden shed with broken windows. The shed had a hole in its base that rats used as their own private entrance. Jesus stooped low to shove the weapon through the hole.
“Okay, let’s go,” he said.
“I’d better tell Caro.”
“She already knows.”
“What did she say?”
“She didn’t believe me. She thinks I’m going to cut off your balls with piano wire.” Then he laughed.
* * *
CONSIDERING WHAT the Porsche must have cost, it seemed mean and cramped inside, with only two small bucket seats. A fat bastard wouldn’t have fitted in the car.
“So is this the part of the story where you drive me off to a warehouse and impale me on a butcher’s hook?” I said.
“No,” said Jesus. “It’s the moment when you catch the superstar criminal off guard, when he shows his more natural side to the camera. The warm, lovable side that until now you didn’t know existed.”
“Tell me something,” I said. “When you saw me in Kew Gardens, did you recognize me?”
“Sure. You were the guy whose book I burned.”
“So that was just coincidence?”
“No. I made the bitch give me a list of all the scum that had ever fucked her. Fucking long list. Then I went round to humiliate you all.”
“Why bother?”
“Until tonight, I thought she was mine.” Jesus sighed. “I really fucking did.”
He turned on the engine, released the brake, and reversed into the path of a black cab. The cabbie, showing remarkable restraint, braked and waited. Then Jesus pressed down his foot and drove on, surging past the gardens. I could smell his pine-based cologne, heavy and sweet, redolent of first love and beauty and obscene wealth. The car was spotlessly clean. I suddenly found I was enjoying the surreal experience of being luxuriously chauffeured by a homicidal Christ look-alike.
“How’s your heart feeling?” he asked me. Neither mocking nor remorseful, just interested.
“How do you think?” I said.
“Bad,” he said. He reached into the glove compartment and passed me a silver flask. “That’s women, you see. Take a woman too seriously, won’t be long before you find teethmarks on your dick. Have a drink, buddy. You look like you could use one.”
I opened the flask and sniffed it. It was cognac. I took a big swig and felt my insides light up. “So when I started shooting, how come you didn’t shoot back?”
Jesus shrugged. “Violence doesn’t thrill me as much as you might think. You see, Killer, there’s a lot of theater in what I do. The men who follow me need to be scared of me, so I have to do frightening things. You can’t be a successful criminal unless you inspire fear. It’s a strange way to make a living.”
“Then why do it?”
“Boredom. I’m serious. Anything remotely normal bores the shit out of me.”
“Give me an example.”
“The moon,” he said.
We were following the Thames east, heading for the city. A big full moon accompanied us all the way, now skimming on the water, now vanishing only to be glimpsed moments later in the branches of a tree.
“You don’t think it’s beautiful?”
“A long time ago, maybe,” said Jesus. “But now I’ve seen it too many times. It always does the same things. I find the moon depressingly predictable.” He lit a cigarette from the dashboard. “I was a bright child. Have you heard of the Mary Swallow School for Gifted Children?”
“No.”
“No? Well, you’re an ignorant slob. It’s a famous school, and I won a scholarship to go there. But they kicked me out. They said I was ungovernable. That was their word for it.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Just trying to explain. I was hyperactive before people knew what the word meant. There’s this restlessness in me that makes me smash things. Even when I don’t want to.”
“Have you read an Edgar Allan Poe story called ‘The Imp of the Perverse’?” I said.
“Do I look like I’ve read an Edgar Allan Poe story called ‘The Imp of the Perverse’?”
“No. But then you don’t look like a man who went to a school for gifted children.”
About fifty yards away, a male pedestrian in his twenties crossed the road in front of us, walking with exaggerated slowness to demonstrate how cool and unafraid he was. Jesus checked his mirror. There was nothing behind us.
To avoid a collision, Jesus needed to brake. Instead, he sped up and knocked the pedestri
an over. The hood slammed into his legs and he flew sideways, bouncing across the road like a rubber ball. Jesus laughed but he didn’t stop. I glanced back to see the pedestrian writhing in the gutter.
“You ran him down,” I pointed out helpfully.
“That’s right,” said Jesus. “Did you see how he was swaggering, daring us to hit him? The pathetic little worm. He dared the wrong man, didn’t he? Man, I love my life.” Then he laughed again, hard and loud.
“Maybe we better go back?”
“Yeah. He was still alive, wasn’t he? Maybe we should go back and run over him again?” He tutted. “What kind of world do you think you’re living in, Killer?”
“A bad one.”
“That’s right. People don’t like each other enough. I like my kid, but I can’t say it goes any further, ’cause I never see him. I only truly love two people. My kid brother and myself. And I’d say I was fairly typical.”
“You think it’s typical to run someone over and not stop?”
“Yeah. And don’t try and tell me you’ve never done it.”
“Did you burn my shop down?”
“What?”
“I asked you a question. Someone set fire to my shop. Was it you?”
“No. Like I said, I did send some guys round to paste you. That’s as far as I got.”
Victoria Embankment rushed by on our left. By Cleopatra’s Needle, a real London bobby was giving directions to some tourists.
“Look. A child’s view of London,” sneered Jesus. “All we need is a red London bus going by.”
Right on cue, a red London bus passed by.
Jesus laughed delightedly. “What did I tell you? Now we need Hugh Grant running up out of breath to tell Julia Roberts he loves her and wants to spend the rest of his life with her. You know what I’d like to see? A film where Hugh Grant runs up at the end and Julia Roberts throws acid in his face.”
“Uh, that doesn’t sound very commercial,” I said.
“Well, I’d pay to see it,” said Jesus.
I took another swig of the brandy. Then an image of Caro being fucked by Jesus drifted into my mind. I covered my face and sighed like a Hampton Court ghost.
