As I bent closer to my humandirt, I felt my stomach muscles quivering. The stench was unbelievable. I got my face about a metre from the muck when, suddenly, my hangover came back with a vengeance. I coughed, and accidentally fired a flume of sick at Polly’s flowerbed. Conveniently, the brown lollipop got covered with vomit. It looked bloody inedible now. I decided to leave it be. I sent Polly’s soiled mink stole flying over next-door’s fence, and covered up my mess with a few more handfuls of dock leaves. Then, I pulled my knickers up.
Moping back inside the house, I was glad I’d avoided eating shit for breakfast, and yet I was aware that – as far as the Tibetan Book of the Dead was concerned – my death was imminent. I scampered nervously around the sitting room like a shaky finger running rings round and round a Ouija board, desperately racking my brains for a better way to cheat death.
On the Dia de los Muertos, apparently, all the lost souls and spirits come back to Earth for their annual ghoul reunion, and I imagined the Grim Reaper as a macabre master of ceremonies, roping as many mere mortals as possible into his giant, conga-like dance of death before the end of the day. I chewed my lips, glancing at the crumpled ghost and Frankenstein outfits on the mushy carpet. My head was still clanging, partly because of the hangover and partly because I couldn’t resist imagining my own horrific death.
As I sat there sulking in Polly’s armchair, I could’ve sworn a black, hooded figure swept past the front window. I bit my tongue and threw myself to the ground. I hid my face in the carpet.
The Grim Reaper was a sneaky bastard. He didn’t need a disguise in a city crawling with shady characters in hooded tops. I, on the other hand, had been daft enough to fashion one of the most distinctive hairdos in the Capital, making me easily identifiable to potential psychopomps. I scruffed up the Guillotine with trembling fingers. If I was to have any chance of avoiding the Grim Reaper, I’d have to spend the day in hiding. Or, better still, in disguise.
When I thought about it, that black, hooded figure could’ve just been Polly’s next-door neighbour, Lamont. Nevertheless, I remained hidden – after all, Lamont might’ve been angry about the soiled mink stole that just flew into his back garden.
Once the coast was clear, I clambered back into the armchair and pondered my change of appearance. Fortunately, my Promiscuous Pal Polly had a whole array of different outfits in her dressing-up box. I snuck upstairs for a peek, to the sound of crashing waterfalls, squeaking enamel and out-of-tune singing.
Polly’s dressing-up box was full of good disguises. Quite a few had an erotic slant – for instance, nursewear, policewear, full bondage gear – but I wanted to hide from Mr Death, not be chased by him like a malnourished Benny Hill. I searched a bit deeper. I guessed the best way to fool the Grim Reaper would be to imitate someone dead already – like an ex-celebrity, or an ex-relative – since Death was only interested in killing the living, not re-killing the deceased.
I gathered up a red T-shirt, some shorts, a fancy white evening dress, tongs, long red socks, red lipstick, brown eyeliner, a Beatles wig and a pair of white very-high heels, then set about stripping off my bland, incriminating, mortal clothes.
* As an aside, the Love Train sees a hell of a lot of action in one day. In an independent scientific study conducted in the 2000s, countless sperm cells (from various men’s bollocks) were found – still alive, but gasping for breath – wriggling on the Love Train’s handrails. That’s right, ladies: not only are the Love Train’s lovehandles filthier than your boyfriend’s cock on a bad day; they’re worse than all your past boyfriends’, friends’, and bosses’ cocks put together.
† Malcolm became ‘Mr Monday’. I’d intended never to speak to him again after what happened at Jessie’s, but a couple of days later Malcolm’s dad left me a note at the Ristorante di Fantasia, thanking me for showing his son ‘such a marvellous time’. So, I crumbled.
‡ Pardon the insult.
§ Or: ‘Kimberly Clark in … the Return of the Chapter Titles You Thought She’d Forgotten About’.
¶ Note my accent magically reappearing in the presence of fellow Teessiders.
Part 1a) ‘Marilyn Monroe’
Prancing out of Seven Sisters station, I had to be careful of whooshing air coming out of the grilles so my dress didn’t fly up. I also had to be careful not to break my neck in the stilettos.
At first, the idea was to dress as Marilyn and laze about the house with Polly all day, but then a far better idea came into my ditzy blonde head. I remembered Paolo’s fixation with that photograph of Marilyn; him always taking it into the lav and coming back out red-faced and sheepish. He was a dirty dog, but I still wanted to make it up to him, for all the trouble I’d caused. And what better way to appease the near-destruction of his restaurant than appearing before him as his favourite wet-dream celebrity, and grovelling for my job back!
I still hadn’t put my notice in at the Wethouse. I figured I’d best secure a new job before I walked out on Malcolm’s dad, or booked a frivolous flight abroad. The thought of going back to the Bush on Monday made me itch. At least, for the time being, I felt womanly and graceful again, marching over the junction in the white evening dress. As I breezed past Tesco, the one-legged lad selling pirate DVDs stared up at me, all doe-eyed and enlightened. I was such a beautiful spectacle, his left leg miraculously grew back before our very eyes – unless he’d just been sitting on it all along.
I felt like a swan, tottering over the High Road with the white fabric flapping elegantly behind me. The other Swan – the pub – leered at me from across the street, its black mouth full of sloshed black patrons, cackling and cat-calling.
As the smell of garlic gradually overpowered the other aromas of Philip Lane (fried chicken, decomposing leaves, soap suds from the AUND ETT), I wondered what I was going to say to Paolo. Providing he didn’t think I was soliciting myself again, I expected he’d enjoy the outfit. I, for one, was enjoying it immensely, especially the new ringlets and lippy.
I twizzled my hair as I swept through the door of the Ristorante. The place looked the same as always except, instead of Kimberly Clark darting around the tables, there was a new girl darting around. She was like a new, improved version of myself; carrying twice as many plates at once, with bigger tits, smoother skin, and straighter teeth. I asked her, through pursed red lips, ‘Hi, is Paolo around?’
I attempted a Yank accent, but mimicry has never been one of my talents, unless you count the time I went to Topshop to get the same vest-top as Marie O’Shea. Raising a finely tweezed eyebrow, the New, Improved Kimberly Clark just laughed, then shouted ‘Paolo!’ in a much better, bona fide Yank accent, and pointed towards the kitchens. I nodded, smoothing my dress shyly.
I swung my hips as I waltzed between the tables, feeling all the diners’ eyes on me. I wanted Marilyn Monroe to appear before Paolo as if in a Vaseline-lensed, Technicolor dream sequence, but I felt more like a cut-price strippergram. And, to make matters worse, Paolo knew instantly who was hiding under the Hollywood veneer.
He wasn’t pleased to see me.
‘Kimmy,’ he snarled, ‘what the hell you do here?’
I wobbled slightly in the stilettos, but disguised it as a half-twirl, fanning the dress out. I said, ‘What do you think?’
Paolo erupted. He slammed down the saucepan he’d been drying and grabbed me roughly by the shoulder. He hissed at me, ‘I think you are disgusting.’
Paolo was acting very strange for someone who liked Marilyn Monroe. My pout dropped. Maybe he thought I was soliciting. I made a sharp, squeaking sound and protested, ‘No, no … it’s only a bit of fun. Er … what can I pu-pu-pi-do to get my job back?’
The line had sounded better in my head. As soon as it left my lips, Paolo dug his fingers harder into my shoulder, and spat, ‘Get out.’
‘Do you get it, though?’ I asked, as he frogmarched me out of the kitchens. ‘I’m her: Marilyn. From that photo of yours.’
Paolo went bright red, which he tried to
pass off as anger, roaring in my face, ‘You stupid little bitch.’
The words hit me in a fine drizzle. It was then I realised some people don’t deserve to be treated nicely. Some people are bastards. Some people deserve to be carpet-bombed with Molotov cocktails, or reported to the Health and Safety Executive for their lacklustre hand-hygiene.
Just to keep face, I yelled into the Ristorante: ‘Paolo’s been pleasuring himself over Marilyn Monroe, you know! In the back!’ I accompanied my scathing speech with the relevant hand gesture.
The diners stared back at me, in silence. Paolo looked to the ground. He finally let go of my shoulder and gestured for me to come back into the kitchens. I followed him cautiously, leaving the door ajar, in case I needed witnesses for the forthcoming assault charge. As it happened, though, Paolo didn’t lay another finger on me. Still shaking, he took his wallet from his coat pocket and removed the photo from amongst his cards and banknotes. He unfolded it and turned it over, for me to see.
‘It is not Marilyn Monroe,’ Paolo stated glumly. ‘It is my wife. She dressed up as Marilyn for my thirty birthday.’
I swallowed, gently pushing the door to. I didn’t realise Paolo was married. Looking down at my very-high heels, I sniffed, and ventured, ‘She’s pretty.’
Paolo said, ‘She died in two thousand six.’
While we stood there in the quiet hubble and bubble of the kitchens, Paolo began to cry. It wasn’t just the odd sniffle, either – it was full-blown, red-faced howling. And with that, I realised he’d been crying over that photo all along, not fucking wanking over it.
Part 1b) ‘Clark Kent/Superman’ for a bit
As I walked Marilyn miserably down West Green Road, the very-high heels were killing, pinching at my protruding anklebones. Perhaps I deserved to die, after what I’d done to Paolo. In my defence, though, his wife didn’t half look like Marilyn Monroe. Next to her, I felt more like Nora Batty than Norma Jean.
About halfway down the road, I came across a BT phone box, wallpapered with the reflections of the buildings round about it. I didn’t fancy being whooped at in the Fountain – going into the ladies as a lady, and coming back out as a gentleman – so I tottered inside the booth, and started stripping off the foolish Marilyn costume. There was only a Domino’s pizza advert to hide my modesty, but years of insecure adolescence had helped me perfect getting changed without baring any flesh. I tugged the tight red T-shirt on over the dress; pulled the shorts up underneath it; wriggled out of the shoulder-straps; whipped the dress off, from under the T-shirt; then slung on the long red socks, Beatles wig and, with the brown eyeliner, I
Part 1c) ‘George Best’
scribbled some stubble on my cheeks and chin. Annoyingly, I’d forgotten to bring any trainers, so I squeezed on the very-high heels again and limped out of the phone box, like a crusty, unshaven drag queen. I got a few weird glances and honk honk honks from passing cars, as I crossed over to the corner shop. I wasn’t sure what let the disguise down the most: the stilettos, the red lipstick, or the 36Bs under my T-shirt.
In the corner shop, I tried to peruse the aisles with a straight face, but the Cypriot owners kept sniggering, running back and forth to the storeroom to gather more family and friends to come and laugh at me. At the counter, I couldn’t help creasing up too, as they scanned my six-pack of Polish Warzone lager, Hall’s Soothers, and two boxes of Rodine Mouse & Rat Killer.
‘Party time, hm?’ the owner asked, doing a joke.
‘Something like that,’ I replied. I didn’t bother with the Belfast accent.
I felt simultaneously self-conscious and detached, stepping back out onto the pavement. If I couldn’t fool the Cypriot folk, how could I fool the Grim Reaper? I guessed the only thing for it was to get into the spirit of Bestie and crack open a can. I took a few girlish sips as I trotted up West Green Road. The Warzone lager was disgusting, like six parts Stella to one part turps. By the fifth sip, I had to cough some back into the can. I wondered if George would’ve been impressed with my dribbling skills. The folk passing by me certainly weren’t.
I had a long, hard think as I marched up the pavement. It didn’t seem to matter if I was nice or nasty – I always seemed to make people unhappy. After the mishaps of the last few months (stoking Shaun and Sean’s gambling addiction, introducing Polly to a British-citizenship-mad stalker, more or less burgling my own building, mocking Paolo’s dead wife), I could feel my time in the Capital coming to an end. The place would probably get on alright without me.
I checked my balance at the next cashpoint. Surely £993.89 was enough to cover a long-haul flight, a tent, a rucksack, and a sleeping bag. Somehow, the idea of going missing in the Scottish Highlands or the Norfolk Broads just wasn’t as appealing as trying to find myself in South-East Asia or North Africa or South America. So, it had to be long haul. And it had to be today.
Japan seemed like a safe bet. Not only did they have the sweetest-smelling spas, the cleanest cities and the most impeccable manners, I also liked the idea of flying east through the time zones, away from Greenwich Mean Time, the Dia de los Muertos and the Grim Reaper. As far as I was aware, they didn’t even have Grim Reapers in Japan.
I figured I’d head over to Heathrow, and see if I could afford a last-minute flight into the sunset – the actual sunset as well, not a slushy, metaphorical one. It was probably getting on for about 8 p.m. in Japan. My mood lifted as I imagined all the neon, the nodding and the bowing, the tuna sashimi, the symmetrical hairdos, the giggling schoolgirls.
First of all, though, I had some unfinished business to attend to. I couldn’t leave the Capital without one last, lasting act of kindness.
As I approached Donald’s battleship-grey building, I looked for his face in the tracing-paper windows, but autumn had misted them all up. I wasn’t Donald’s biggest fan any more, after he’d given me cystitis and a prolapsed arsehole, but I still felt sorry for him. I shivered as I went through the entrance – either the Reaper was close by, or it was down to me wearing a T-shirt and shorts in the height of autumn. Knowing my luck, I’d catch my death of cold, regardless. I coughed violently, keeping my head down, taking my time up the uneven, death-trap stairway.
The Wethouse had been leaving me messages all morning, wondering why I hadn’t turned up for work, what I was playing at, etc., etc. I just couldn’t bring myself to give them ‘imminent death’ as an excuse, though.
While the Wethouse wasn’t the finest hostel in the Capital (it probably wasn’t even the finest homeless hostel), I wanted Donald to know there was a clean bed there, if he wanted it. There might even be a job there for him – after all, someone would have to fill my boots once I jetted off to Japan.
I attempted more Warzone, bauked, then walked up up up up up up to floor 6, with the rickety horrible elevator lagging behind me. Once I got to the top, I pulled the neck of the T-shirt over my nose and mouth to keep me from inhaling the mould spores.
I followed a trail of wild mushrooms to Donald’s door and gently pushed it open. There were more rats in Donald’s pad than I’d remembered. They were a brazen lot – staring me out as I hopped across the exposed floorboards. A few Ecstasy pills crunched under my stilettos as I made my way round the old sewing machines with my arms outstretched. Round the back of the third Brother machine, I was met with a sorry sight. Donald was lying face-down on his ‘new’ sofa, in a puddle of strange liquid. My lungs collapsed like two houses of cards. I pulled the T-shirt down from my face and coughed into my hand. Had the Grim Reaper got him first? Did his anklebones stick out even more than mine?
I gave him a nudge. No reaction. I gave him a frantic shake. Still no reaction. Panicking, I gently pressed my fingers against the pulse in his neck, at which point Donald sprung to attention, spluttering, and then nearly suffering a cardiac arrest, to see his hero standing over him.
‘Wh …’ he mumbled, rubbing his head. Although Donald was mortalled, it didn’t take long for him to come to his senses, rising from the sofa a
nd saying, ‘Aw, it’s you.’
‘Naw, naw, I’m Georgie Bestie,’ I said, slapping the hand-drawn Man Utd crest on my breast.
Donald just laughed. I shuffled from heel to heel while he coughed violently for a good thirty seconds; then he rubbed his head again and asked, ‘Well, have you … what are you after? Still no money?’
I thought of my £993.89, converted into yen. While it’d be nice to empty my bank account into Donald’s pockets, I had to look out for myself now. I scratched under the Beatles wig and explained. ‘Ah, sorry, I’m still skint. But I had this thought. I don’t know if you’re up for it, but … well, you know I lost the job at the restaurant? Well, I started working at this homeless hostel down Shepherd’s Bush … and it’s sound … dead clean … and I could definitely get you a bed there. See, cos you can’t stay here, Don. It’s full of mould. You’ll die here.’
‘I’m not scared of dying. I fuck death up the arse, me!’ Donald gurgled, shifting on the sofa.
‘Howay, you’d like it … and you can drink there. The Wethouse, they call it,’ I went on, feeling sad that Donald would rather live in squalor. It’s true the human body can get used to just about anything (bar molten lava, shark attacks, machine guns, heartbreak, etc.), but it made me depressed, imagining Donald dying here alone, and the rats feeding off his bones until he disappeared completely, and no one would even know he’d been here, or gone.
Donald’s left foot (the one with the snakeskin loafer) tapped the floor frantically, as if independent from the rest of his body.
‘The Wethouse?’ he said. ‘Down Shepherd’s Bush?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I can’t go there.’
‘Why not?’
‘Cos … Kimberly’s there,’ Donald mumbled.
Kimberly's Capital Punishment Page 19
