Kimberly's Capital Punishment

by Richard Milward

  I spent most of Thursday morning disguising my pesky, evil eyes with turquoise shadow, practising different styles of smiles in the mirror, and putting on a good bra, for the sake of pleasing the boys. My dad used to say the most powerful people in the world are beautiful, kind, intelligent women, since other women will respect you, and men will bend over backwards to help you, whatever your needs. Therefore it had to be the Wonderbra.

  All morning, the sun played peekaboo with me from between the altocumulus clouds. To be nice to the flat, I opened the sash windows to air it out, then went round picking up knickers, plastic bags and receipts, and stuffing them in the appropriate places. After the tidy-round, I pulled the bunny jumper and scarlet raincoat over the Wonderbra, and tugged on fresh jeans. I straightened the Guillotine with the ceramic ghds. To be nice to my landlord and his insurance company, I remembered to slide the sash windows shut again and switch off the straighteners. The flat let out a lovely sigh of relief, also known as air displacement. In a way, houses are a lot like human bodies, what with their central heating respiratory systems, glass eyes, flapping mouths, AC/DC nervous systems, fatty insulation and vital organs (boiler, oven, fridge-freezer, waste disposal). They even age the same way, leaning over at funny angles, and their skin slowly cracking. In human terms, my building must’ve been about eighty-odd.

  I wrote a shopping list of beauty products on the back of a Kleenex, then snuck down the spinal-column stairs and out into the brisk afternoon. I used Stevie’s spare key on the tricky door, for old time’s sake, then headed west towards Wood Green Shopping City. It was quite a trek, but the walk seemed pleasant enough, without my usual, nagging hatred for humankind. I bought chips from the lonely looking lad at MFC Chicken, just to be nice, and threw them away to the squirrels and pigeons, also to be nice.

  I was nervous about going up to Shopping City, because it meant walking past the common for the first time since Stevie hung himself. My pulses thumped as the adventure playground came into view in the distance. The garish primary colours seemed unbearably cheerful for a suicide spot. I picked my fingernails into bloody ruins.

  As usual, the play area was empty, except for two little girls scrambling along the climbing frame, enjoying themselves. I’m not sure what made me stop by the railings to watch them. Maybe I was looking for closure, or perhaps it was exhaustion. Nevertheless, the girls looked happy, swinging from the same rung Stevie had swung from only a month or so before. They looked like twins, though one had her blonde hair in a sharp bob, while the other had a plaited ponytail. I think the one with the Guillotine was smiling the hardest.

  Before long, the girls spotted me staring at them, and they became instantly shy, dropping onto the soft play bark with a horrid thud.

  ‘Ey up!’ I said, smiling at them.

  The girls just stared back, confused. They probably didn’t even know what an ‘Ey up’ was.

  With cheeks blazing, I set off again, striding past the Subterranean Ghost Train station, with brokeLads and New Capital Kebab on my left. While I’d never forget the image of Stevie’s big blue face, it felt good to have another – happier – image of the climbing frame, to superimpose over the heartbreaking one. I could hear the twins giggling again behind me, and I giggled too, into the collar of the raincoat.

  Despite the kindness being a bit forced and sickly sweet, I felt like a changed woman. I swear the Capital seemed more colourful, like someone had been at it with their felt-tips. Everyone I passed appeared to be smiling – either that, or they were screwing their faces up at the strobing sun. I chased my shadow towards Shopping City, which loomed up ahead like a dull, halfhearted Las Vegas. I shimmied between the shoppers.

  In the Capital, there are three varieties of mugger: the tramp, the criminal and the charity worker. Most vocal of the three is the charity worker. While warning you of their presence with their bright, oversized fleeces, charity workers have the ability to pinpoint – and fleece – weaklings in crowds of people with hawk-like precision.

  I’ve never been a fan of speaking to strangers, let alone strangers whose job it is to politely pester you into parting with your pennies. When I spotted the charity worker up ahead with its ginger dreadlocks and fluorescent yellow fleece, my heart’s initial reaction was to play dead. But then I remembered the altruism again, and it was actually a strange treat when the charity worker picked me out of the hundreds of dour faces and said, ‘Hello! You’re wearing red! I’m wearing yellow! How are you?! Can I have a quick chat?!’

  To the charity worker’s surprise, I stopped in my tracks, and said back to it, ‘Hello! Yeah, I’m fine! Go on!’

  A bit stumped, the charity worker fumbled with its clipboard, scratched its dreadlocks and stumbled over a snigger. I felt bad for fazing it. All the charity worker could think to do was hand me a leaflet covered with pictures of butchered seals.

  ‘Ugh,’ I said, a bit confused.

  ‘Erm, erm,’ the charity worker said, getting back its composure, ‘I’m collecting for a, er, anti-sealing campaign. For just two pounds a month, you can help put an end to innocent seals being slaughtered for, er, their pelts and fur.’

  ‘Sound,’ I said. I couldn’t get my Maestro card out quick enough. Hummmming, I wrote my details onto one of its sheets, feeling my heart swelling. Once I’d filled out the application, the charity worker gave me a hug, though I think the hug was scripted. Breathing in the worker’s dank jungle hair, I spotted on the bottom of its clipboard: FINALLY, WHY NOT GIVE THEM A HUG, OR SAY ‘HAVE A LOVELY DAY!’

  Nevertheless, I let the charity worker grope me for as long as it fancied.

  ‘Have a lovely day!’ it said, waving me off. I just laughed.

  As I waltzed further into Shopping City, I looked up at the loaded clouds and put my hood up. I couldn’t believe it’d taken me this long to learn the pleasures of being selfless. I imagined the seals clapping their flippers together, just for me. I let the clouds dribble on me, and I didn’t feel at all fluey. Whether a placebo or not, the altruism was working wonders for my hypochondria.

  However, two steps later, I was surprised to find myself surrounded by four or five other charity workers, all waving their clipboards at me and trying to rip my arms off.

  By three o’clock I had seven new direct debits set up. After all that strenuous form-filling, it was time for a breather. Paolo didn’t want me at the Ristorante di Fantasia till half six, so I spent an hour sipping the cheapest coffee off the Marks & Sparks menu, with a carrier full of cosmetics between my knees. I turned the Clarins anti-ageing-cream bottle over in my hands, contemplating immortality.

  I got halfway through the instruction booklet when, suddenly, I found myself spasming uncontrollably. I was vibrating. Pre-1990s, this might’ve meant an epileptic seizure, but in this day and age it’s more likely just a phone call.

  I tugged the humming Sony Ericsson out of my damp jeans.

  ‘Hello?’ I said.

  ‘Ey up, Kimberly,’ the phone said back. It was either Shaun or Sean – I couldn’t tell without looking at them. Inside, my heart flinched, and I considered feigning signal problems, but then I remembered the pesky altruism again.

  It turned out the two-headed monster had caught wind of my windfall at Stevie’s will-reading, and wondered if I fancied a pint or two, to ‘toast my success’. It was still only early, so I agreed to meet them for a quick one at this Danish pub down Holloway. I had a funny feeling they wanted more from me than just a pint of froth but, nevertheless, I decided to be nice, and set off from Marks’s with my prejudices behind me. And four more charity workers behind me, too – tailing me all the way to the Subterranean Ghost Train station, still flap-flap-flapping their pens and clipboards.

  Kimberly Clark in … the Taming of the Shrewd Two-Headed Monster

  This was my first real test: being nice to two truly putrid people.

  I took the Ghost Train down to Holloway. I was tempted to make conversation with some of the stony passengers, but I di
dn’t want to frighten them. People are so paranoid in the Capital. I think it’s that feeling of being trapped underground with total strangers, in one of the world’s most dangerous cities – with not much oxygen – that makes people a little nervy.

  I decided to be nice and kept my mouth shut.

  On Holloway Road, I walked away from the dangling sun, weaving in and out of the charging pedestrians and limping pigeons, trying not to get in anyone’s way. This only resulted in me getting in everyone’s way, though. It’s not easy being nice – I had to keep a constant tape-loop of SMILE! SMILE! SMILE! SMILE! SMILE! spinning round and round my head but, whenever someone went past with an angry face – or shoulder-barged me, or sneezed near me – the tape kept getting jammed, or ruckled, and it was starting to wear thin.

  I got to the Copenhagen ten minutes late but, after two breathless laps round the bar, I realised Shaun and Sean were late too. I ordered a Smirnoff Ice, perching myself on one of the high stools. As I poured out my drink, the tumbler turned into a miniature fantasy planetarium, with thousands of tiny, spinning comet bubbles, and larger ice-cube meteorites. I sucked it up, into a black hole.

  Waiting for people always makes me nervous – especially when you’re not overly keen on who you’re waiting for. I’d got halfway through the Smirnoff when the double-doors swung open, and in they came. Sean was dressed in his trademark tight T-shirt, while Shaun appeared to have swept his floppy fringe-wing back with grease, or rain.

  SHAUN KIMBERLY SEAN

  Ey up Ey up, Kimberly

  Hiya, lads

  Soz we’re late, he fucking los—

  Well, you were fucking rushing

  What’s that?

  Ah, the bookies

  Fucking pathetic

  Aye, and you cleaned up, eh

  I’ve got money for a pint

  No, no, I’ll get youse a drink

  Aw

  Ta

  What youse having?

  Er, pint of Carling please

  Stella. Not that piss

  Just nip to the ladies first, lads

  I used the pub’s Kimberly-Clark facilities, then strolled back to the bar for the lads’ pints. They were a funny old pair. Like a lot of boys I knew from the North East, the pull of the betting shop had failed to loosen its grip round their necks and wallets. All those shops ever seemed to do was stir up false hope and disappointment. I preferred shops such as Topshop or New Look, which, to be fair though, had their own disappointments, if you happened to be larger than a size 12.

  I placed the drinks down in front of the two-headed monster, hoping the fizzy bubbles might perk the boys up a bit.

  There we are

  Nice one Nice one, cheers

  So, how youse getting on?

  Not bad. How about you?

  I bet you’re alright!

  Hm?

  Fucking, what was it, seven grand?

  Er, yeah, yeah. It’s mad

  Mint, that. Nice to get settled

  Yeah, I suppose

  See, cos we were gonna ask

  Yeah, we were gonna, er

  Yeah, naw. I’ll ask

  Go on, lads, spit it out

  Ha

  Well, see, we’re not happy in our jobs much

  I am. He’s not

  Fuck off

  Just sayi—

  Well, like, we’re thinking of setting up a new business

  Down here

  Funerals again

  Like, cos it was daft what happened up there

  Aye, cos we’ve got the skills

  But we’re totally strapped

  Like, we’ve got the business cards

  Just not the business

  Simultaneously, Shaun and Sean rummaged through their trousers, and removed a deck of business cards. The stock was cheap and nasty, almost like copier paper. Sean fanned his out, and I plucked one from the pile. It read: SS FUNERALS – KIND RELIABLE SERVICE, with their numbers and address underneath. I had to bite my lip. I wondered if they were aware of the Schutzstaffel, the other SS. The other death squad. Shaun even had a hairdo like Hitler.

  Like, we’d pay you back

  Hang on, we haven’t

  asked her yet

  Aw, you want a borrow?

  Yeah, er, please

  Five grand would be a

  springboard

  You can tell he’s a fucking lifeguard

  Piss off. We’ll definitely pay you back

  Like, straight away

  See, loads of people die and that, down here

  Shut up, she doesn’t fuckin—

  Like, you’ll definitely get it back

  You’ll get it back

  Deffos

  Yeah, alright then

  The monster’s four eyes widened, almost in disbelief. To be fair, though, Shaun and Sean deserved the money as much as me – at least they’d been loyal to Stevie over the years. They might’ve ripped the piss out of him now and then, but they never would’ve pushed the poor soul to suicide – not even if business was slow at SS Funerals. Which, by the sound of it, it was.

  Usually, when humans are asked for money, their initial reaction is to squirm and feel uneasy. I just felt numb, though, as I wrote out the cheques for £2,500 each. I mechanically handed the money over, like an ATM being daylight-robbed, but it was the right thing to do. I felt a bit of my guilt subside as I signed the dotted line.

  That’s unreal

  Cheers, you’re a star

  God, that’s amazing

  And then came the unexpected ripple of joy. I flapped my legs under the bar, beaming. Even though funeral care seemed like a morbid career path, it was great to see Shaun and Sean happy for once. Finally, the bickering fell silent. I patted the lads on their shoulders, feeling like a beardless Jesus, rising slightly on my seat to beckon the barman for another drink.

  ‘You couldn’t write me out a cheque, could you, lovey?’ spluttered this old codger who’d appeared on the opposite side of the bar. I laughed, just to make him happy.

  ‘Ah, I wish I could,’ I replied, genuinely disappointed not to have more charity money in the vaults. ‘Here, though, what you drinking? I’ll get you a pint.’

  It’s an expensive business, being generous. I plucked the last tenner out of my purse, then asked the barman for a pint’s worth of Tetley’s for the old man. My pockets (or, rather, the zip pocket in my handbag) were feeling considerably lighter but, in equal proportion, my heart felt a lot plumper. After slurping the froth off the top of his pint, the old man smiled all six of his teeth at me. As it happened, it wasn’t your average smile of gratitude – it seemed more like a smile that said, ‘Ha ha, I fucking got one over you there, you daft cow!’

  I just smiled back sheepishly.

  Money’s meant to be the root of all evil, but it can also be a route to happiness. Then again, I knew I had to be more careful about it. The wage at the Ristorante di Fantasia was enough to pay my rent and keep my head above water, but it was clear I’d need to conjure more pocket money if I was going to carry out endless good deeds.

  On the packed Love Train back to Seven Sisters, I tried to think up ways to beg, borrow or steal more money, while thrusting my pelvis involuntarily in an old Asian man’s face. He acted coy, pretending not to notice. Afterwards, I felt used, wandering down past Tesco with a layer of sweat down my back. However, when I got to the pistachio green door of the Ristorante, all the male customers seemed pleased to see me and the Wonderbra, but, instead of lust in their eyes, I saw shining pound coins.

  Kimberly Clark Suffers a Severe Bout of … Can’t-Turn-Them-Down Syndrome

  ‘You on fire tonight,’ Nina snarled as I dropped another couple of quid in my TIPS jar. Once I’d been working at the Ristorante a month or so, I plucked up the courage to question Paolo about the three-way tips split. I had a long speech planned – about how it was immoral (and probably illegal), him taking a cut out of mine and Nina’s hard labour – but, in the end, I think it wa
s the Wonderbra that swayed it. While I spoke, Paolo just stared into the dark, mysterious chasm between my breasts, purring, ‘Oh, okay, baby.’ He got us our very own TIPS jars from out the back: mine led a former life as a pesto jar; Nina’s looked like a sardine can. Mine had £19.62 in it. Nina’s had £1.30-ish.

  ‘Here, Nina, have some for yours,’ I said, scraping a few quid from table 2 into the sardine can. She shot me a look of sarcastic gratitude.

  I don’t know why she was so moody about it. It wasn’t difficult making an impact in that place – all you had to do was keep smiling and not drop anything. I felt a bit like Anthea Turner on Prozac, with a huge watermelon grin even air hostesses might find over the top.

  Being nice in the Ristorante di Fantasia made the nights go so much quicker. Compared to Nina – plodding about in her high heels, with a face like a clenched fist – I found myself enjoying the customers’ company more, racing about like a mother hen, laughing at their bad jokes, phoning taxis for those too intoxicated to move/speak.

  Some of the customers needed mothering more than others. One of the sweetest characters in the restaurant is Malcolm, a boy with Down’s syndrome, who sometimes sits in the corner with his dad, and with his Velcro undone. His dad runs this homeless hostel in Shepherd’s Bush, and he makes his son help out with cleaning up the drunks’ drinks and other menial bits (it’s a ‘wethouse’, which means the homeless folk are allowed to get lashed), in order to ‘integrate’ Malcolm into normal society. I don’t know who’s weirder – Malcolm or Malcolm’s dad. I guessed a homeless hostel was nothing like normal society – and even the Ristorante had its quirks.

  The clientele in the Ristorante di Fantasia was made up largely of large males. Therefore, the most foolproof technique to earn tips was to combine the contents of my bra with the napes of these men’s necks. If you’re skilled and subtle enough to stroke a man’s neck with your bosoms, and make him think he’s the only one you’re doing it to, the money should roll in.