Mr Friday was a sports fan. Apparently, he used to play basketball with Paolo back in Italy, and now he looked like one. Perhaps that was his dream – not to be a professional basketball player, but to be the basketball itself. He first bounced into my life on a blue-skied Friday afternoon. While a lot of businesses treat their employees to ‘casual Friday’, Paolo enforced ‘formal/flamboyant Friday’ with an iron fist – me and Nina had to wear our shortest, tightest skirts and our highest heels, to cater for the wild-eyed weekend punters. I was a bit embarrassed, getting my English legs out, like two white rugby posts on a scorching Sports Day. Because of the legs, Mr Friday was eyeing me up greedily – I think he wanted to get in between them, despite being a basketball, not a rugby ball. I always gave him extra portions of his Milanese osso buco – I wanted to help him on his quest to become perfectly spherical. He even shaved his head – a ball on top of a ball. All Mr Friday ever talked about was sports, in this clipped Italo-Cockney accent he’d developed. He wanted to take me ice skating one evening and, although he was desperately unattractive, part of me wanted to see how a huge snowball would cope on the ice. I courted him for comedy value. I agreed to meet him the following Friday, at an old ice-hockey rink in the north-west of the Capital. I felt self-conscious on the Ghost Train, clad in a white leotard, with a diaphanous skirt over the top. Mr Friday kept kissing me, pretending it was an Italian custom. He was unbearable. The funny part was he kept landing on his arse as he shuffled round the ramshackle rink, but the unfunny part was he kept getting in a strop about it, blaming me, or kicking off at the other skaters. He wasn’t impressed by my slinky rink skills – he kept grabbing for me, and grappling me to the ground. By the end of it, my bottom half was covered in bruises. People kept gawping at us, trying to suss out what the relationship was. Despite all the shame and sore bits, Mr Friday wanted to see me again. I tried to make out I was snowed under for the next couple of weeks, but I could sense Mr Friday’s heart growing heavier inside his chest, and I didn’t want the poor sod to have a cardiac arrest. After all, it was probably my fault his arteries were clogged, after overfeeding him the osso buco. So, I agreed to watch the Champions League with him in a fortnight’s time. And I even agreed to buy myself a Milan top.
Mr Saturday wasn’t from the Ristorante di Fantasia. He was from a different eatery altogether: the internet caff. The next night, I was tucked up in bed, being lulled to sleep by the life-weary lilt of Elliott Smith, when, suddenly, I found myself spasming uncontrollably. I was vibrating. I didn’t panic, though – it wasn’t delirium tremens, or the onset of motor neurone disease; it was my second phone call in seventeen days. It’d taken almost a month for Mr Saturday to get in touch, and I hardly recognised his voice, because I’d hardly heard it before. He was from Ghana, and his English wasn’t great. It didn’t help that he was mumbling, either. I wondered if he suffered from telephonophobia, like Stevie. I held my knees up to the chest of my PJs, and felt my tummy squirm, when Mr Saturday slurred, ‘Eh … hello, hello … I phone for the … I pay for the sex … the sex with you now?’ Lo and behold, Mr Saturday thought I was a prostitute. The poor sod obviously thought it was impossible a seductive siren like me would give him my phone number without wanting something sinister in return. At first, my instinct was to hang up the phone – like any normal lady – but I decided not to be horrible, and instead explained: ‘Naw, naw, I thought you might just want a drink, or … a bite to eat, or … something.’ Mr Saturday paused. ‘No, no,’ he murmured, ‘just the sex … I pay you for the sex … please … I really want. Please.’ I looked up at my headache-inducing Artex, grinding my teeth. Fifty minutes later, thirty pounds was inside my purse and Mr Saturday’s penis was inside a blue condom, inside me, inside his bedroom, inside the internet caff. For some reason, he wanted to keep the lights off – probably to stop the folk on the 243 peering in at us – but he might as well have been having a blindfolded wank. I shut my eyelids and dreamed of Stevie. With the right amount of mind power, you can tolerate almost anything – from fish-hooking, to ‘playful’ strangulation, to the piledriver position. Annoyingly, though, I think the bruises I had on my buttocks from ice skating added to the impression I was a prostitute. Mr Saturday must’ve been a fan of watching internet S&M after hours at the caff – he clung to my jugular with one hand while he bucked me, using the other to smack right where I’d slapped off the ice the day before. It was agonising. I bit into his duvet, which tasted like second-hand boxer shorts. I kept my eyes shut and kept my gob shut. I didn’t even want to accept his money, but Mr Saturday insisted I keep it, once he’d finished up and pulled off the blue condom with a shhhleppp. I spotted specks of blood on my side of the latex, and I definitely wasn’t on my period. Once he was dressed, Mr Saturday phoned for a takeaway from his friend’s chicken place, then explained he wanted me out of his flat before the food turned up. The closest he got to chivalry was mumbling, ‘Goodbye,’ before locking the door behind me. Tears fell off my eyelashes as I hobbled back to the halal butcher’s. The journey took longer than usual – I felt like I needed a hip replacement. I probably needed a lobotomy. When I finally got back to the safety of Flat D, a Ghost Train must’ve been going underneath the building, because Elliott Smith appeared to be shaking his head at me, on the cover of Either/Or.
Mr Sunday restored my faith in men. It was hard work the next day, trying to put on a brave face and be sweet to the customers, when what I really wanted was Paolo to dispose of us all in a freak chip-pan fire. Undoubtedly, I’d made a few men in Tottenham temporarily happy, but I was beginning to doubt my own happiness. It’s a wonder the altruism gene hasn’t been phased out of humanity (like us growing out of our gills, 300 million years ago), the way people exploit and bully those who are good-natured. Thankfully, I spotted the gene in action that afternoon, when Mr Sunday turned up to the Ristorante with someone else’s nan. Mr Sunday volunteered at the old folk’s home on alternate weekends, taking the old dears out to stretch their legs, or spin the cobwebs out of their wheelchairs. The nans all loved him, especially when he took them for ‘proper coffee’ at the Ristorante di Fantasia. It wasn’t proper coffee, mind you – it came out of a jar with a Sainsbury’s Basics label on. ‘What can I get you?’ I asked Mr Sunday, giving him my most genuine smile of the day. Mr Sunday ate at the Ristorante most nights – he was either an awful cook, or awfully rich. ‘T c fe, p eas,’ Mr Sunday replied, far too quiet for a half-full restaurant. While Mr Sunday was a handsome chap, his good looks were let down by his intense, almost offensive shyness. ‘Say again? Something with peas?’ I went, poised with my pen. ‘Two coffees, please,’ Mr Sunday repeated, far too loudly this time. ‘The proper stuff,’ his companion added, which I ignored. When I came back with the drinks, Mr Sunday was engrossed in this pamphlet about the ancient Egyptians. He didn’t seem the greatest company for the old dear but, then again, she was someone else’s nan, not his own nan. As I put down the coffees, I brushed up against Mr Sunday, peering over his shoulder at the papyrus drawings of Osiris, Ra, the Great Devourer, and all them lot. ‘Do you like the Egyptians?’ I asked, practically in his earhole. Mr Sunday stiffened, nodded, and managed an ‘Mm!’ I’m a big fan of the Egyptians myself, what with them taking extra-special care of their dead bodies, despite breaking their noses in, and hacking their brains up. The Egyptians didn’t think the brain was important, though – in fact, they gouged out the rest of your vital organs with poking-sticks, leaving just the heart. To them, the heart made all the important decisions in your body, like whether to feel happy or sad, or whether to take someone else’s nan out for a proper coffee. When one of your Egyptians dies, they do the ‘weighing of the heart’ procedure: if your heart’s as light as the ‘feather of truth’, they reckon you must’ve been a good person, and you’re allowed to become a god in the afterlife. That afternoon, my heart felt pretty heavy. I asked Mr Sunday, ‘Do they have Egyptians in the Capital? The dead ones, I mean … the … ancient ones?’ Mr Sunday sniggered nervo
usly, and replied, ‘In the British Museum.’ I didn’t want to embarrass him in front of someone else’s nan, so I left Mr Sunday a secret note with the bill, more or less inviting myself to the museum with him the following Sunday. We met on the giant, Hellenic steps. Mr Sunday walked like a mannequin on wheels, with his arms by his sides, and he had that terrible habit some lads get on first dates, where they can’t stop asking, ‘Are you alright? Are you alright? You okay? Are you still alright?’ By the time we got into the ancient Egyptians, I was more than alright. Mr Sunday was in his element up there, reeling off all these facts and figures, and stories about the gods. Apparently, scarab beetles symbolised evil turning to good – a bit like yours truly, except I didn’t have the four extra legs, or the ball of shit. We looked at these tiny mummified cats, tiny crocodiles, and tiny humans (back then, everyone was tiny), and he explained they preserved the bodies so the person’s soul (or the Ba and Ka, if you’re from Egypt) could visit in the nighttime – and they sometimes did the ‘opening of the mouth’ ceremony, so the corpse could talk and eat again. I shivered, imagining all the brown, crispy mummies creaking back to life after hours at the museum, all confused about waking up in a glass cabinet in the Capital, instead of the pyramid they went to bed in. Then, without warning, I felt all panicky and upset, and I had to stride out of the Egyptians and into the Greeks, and I had to hold on to Heracles’ sandal to stop myself from crying. I hoped Stevie was getting on alright, wherever his soul had sailed off to. I wished there was some way of conducting a makeshift ‘opening of the mouth’ ceremony for him, so I could say, ‘Sorry,’ and he could say, ‘Ah, don’t don’t be daft K-Kim, it’s alright, n-no no hard f-feelings.’ But Stevie was probably just a puddle in a Marks & Spencer suit now, and I wasn’t sure even the Egyptians had any magic spells to get puddles to talk. I sniffed, clutching Heracles’ big toe, even though Heracles was telling me quite sternly PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH. I wished there was some way of bringing Stevie back to life. It’s sad that, when you split up with someone, all you can do is compare your subsequent lovers to the one you lost – and they never seem to match up. For a second I contemplated murdering Mr Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday, and using their different attributes (childishness, blue-grey irises, freckles, white hair, sports fanaticism, telephonophobia, shyness) to construct a Stevie doppelgänger. When Mr Sunday came dashing into the Greeks to check I was alright (again), I was this close to wrenching Heracles’ spear out of the statue’s grasp and sinking it into Mr Sunday’s chest.
But that wouldn’t be very nice, now, would it?
The Capital famously suffers from severe overcrowding and, suddenly, so did my life.
I think it’s the overcrowding that makes everyone so paranoid. Whenever you’re walking around the Capital, you’ve always got that nagging feeling you’re being followed – because you are. You can guarantee there’s always a stranger just a few paces behind you, breathing down your neck.
One afternoon I was minding my own business, rolling a black dungball down down down to the recycling point at Downhills Park, when a voice said behind me:
‘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.’
Donald still wasn’t looking any fatter. I blinked at him through my insectoid sunglasses. I must’ve given Donald enough money for a dozen cheeseburgers and thousands of chips over the past couple of months, and yet he still looked frighteningly skinny. I was desperate to find out the secret to his full-fat, slim-fast diet – perhaps it was all the walking he did.
I gave him an over-the-top smile. Donald just stared back at me. He never seemed to recognise me, despite us being on first-name terms. Like a lot of tramps in the Capital, Donald had this hazy, glazed look about him, which I’ve seen before in people on analgesic drugs, as well as people who’ve just devoured a large McDonald’s. The jury was still out as to whether Donald was being honest with me about the drugs, drink, and burgers.
Tips were still rolling in nicely at the Ristorante – especially on Mondays, when Malcolm/Mr Monday came in with his dad; or on Wednesdays, when Mr Wednesday came in for lobster and a leer; or on Fridays, when Mr Friday popped in for his osso buco. As I opened my purse, finally Donald smiled too, showing off what could only be described as the onset of scurvy. It was like someone had gone round his teeth with a black fineliner.
‘’Ere though,’ I said, mid-donation, ‘do you not fancy something better than cheeseburgers and that?’
Donald’s smile faltered. I swapped hands with the balled-up binbags, and suggested, ‘See, I could sort you out some dinner at this restaurant I work at. Do you eat Italian?’
‘I … don’t know if I could shtomach …’ Donald slurred, before launching into a violent coughing fit.
‘Don’t be daft. It’s on me,’ I said, dishing a Hall’s Soother out of my Medicine Bag for him, as an appetiser.
Donald didn’t know what to say – he was that grateful. I slung my dungbags into the correct recycling bin, then we walked together, shoulder-to-shoulder, away from the park. With the spring sun springing in and out from between the branches, our shadows kept tailing us then hiding, like a pair of shoddy detectives. I was feeling pretty peckish myself, so we decided to outrun our shadows altogether, power-walking down Philip Lane, towards the Ristorante di Fantasia.
‘You don’t have to do this, darling,’ Donald said, but I politely ignored him. He made a sad slurping sound with his Soother.
‘I’m just an old bastard,’ he added.
The more Donald talked, the more teeth I realised he had missing. And the further we walked, the more obvious it was he had a size-10 Hi-Tech trainer on one foot, and a size-14 snakeskin loafer on the other. As it turned out, Donald hadn’t owned a matching pair of shoes for years – he had to make do with stealing odd footwear off the racks outside shops. But, even so, something must have attracted him to the flamboyant loafer.
We stopped outside the pistachio green door. I wasn’t overly keen on going into the Ristorante on my afternoons off, since it reminded me too much of hard work. Plus, I was so nice nowadays, I couldn’t resist straightening the BUONGIORNO mat, collecting glasses, and wiping down a few of the tables. The last one I wiped down, me and Donald sat down at with a crunch. The cutlery jumped.
‘Kimmy, Kimmy … this is another of your fancy man, no?’ Paolo guffawed, the greasy twat.‡ Admittedly, it must’ve looked a bit iffy to Paolo, now I was dating half a dozen of his customers – some people mistake kindness for weakness, or empty-headedness, or dirty-mindedness.
‘Have whatever you want,’ I said to Donald.
‘Oh … mm …’ Donald mumbled, as he stared blankly at the menu, ‘I don’t think I can eat … I don’t eat … mebbie I’ll just drink … you know …’
‘I thought you didn’t drink?’ I said. I tried to slam the menu shut – like you would your bedroom door after a petty argument – but the menu was made of paper, not wood. Donald glanced at me, equally disheartened, like he genuinely did want to eat, but just couldn’t.
‘My stomach’s shrunk,’ he offered, by way of apology.
I picked up my menu again. I couldn’t be annoyed at him for long. I understood a lot of homeless folk only stay alive thanks to a steady drip of alcohol, rather than three square meals a day. The withdrawal from booze must far outweigh any hunger pains and, in any case, food soaks up the magical, mind-numbing properties of alcohol. As soon as they stop drinking, that’s when alcoholics start dying. It’s like anyone else on the planet: as soon as they stop working, that’s when workers start dying. As soon as they stop running, that’s when runners start dying.
I just hoped Donald hadn’t lied about the drugs as well.
I took a couple of Kalms tablets out of my Medicine Bag and downed them with a swig of table water. Then, I looked up at Donald and suggested, ‘Well … what say, er … I can take you out on the lash, if you want?’
Donald flashed more teeth at me or, at least, he flashed the gaps where they should’ve been. I ordered us a handful of limoncellos, prompting the odd dirty wink and unrepeatable hand gesture from Paolo. I ignored him. I thought the citrus might improve Donald’s scurvy, and the alcohol definitely improved his spirits. He wheezed at me, ‘You’re a dying breed, a dying breed …’
‘Ah no,’ I said, blushing a bit. After the face-tingling shots, I settled the bill with Paolo, then led Donald to the next Mecca for wreckheads: the Turkish-Cypriot off-licence a couple of doors down.
Kimberly's Capital Punishment Page 11
