Kimberly's Capital Punishment

by Richard Milward

  ‘Naw, I know. I’m Kimberly,’ I said, taking the wig off, to show him. Did he recognise me or not?

  ‘No, no,’ he carried on, ‘not shower-curtain Kimberly, my Kimberley. My little one. My daughter. She’s down there. In Shepherd’s Bush Wethouse. She’s not … she won’t want to see me.’

  I shook my head in shock. I needed a sit down to take it all in, but nowhere looked suitable for sitting.

  ‘Never,’ I murmured, though my mind kept flashing back to the first time I met Donald, when he told me he had a daughter called Kimberl(e)y. All this time, I thought he was just saying that to butter me up. Then again, it did make sense they were related – two lost souls, sailing along on an old drunken boat with no oars. I squinted, looking for her face in his, but the scars were too distracting.

  ‘That’s mad,’ I added. ‘I mean, that’s more reason to come down, though, isn’t it? When did you last see her?’

  Donald kept his eyes to the ground as he answered. ‘I’ve hardly seen her. My second wife, she … we gave her away. Young Kimberley. We gave her and her twin sister away for adoption. She stays in touch – the wife – but I fucked everything up. We won’t get along.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I don’t think she gets on with anyone, like. But you might as well come and see the rooms? Please?’

  ‘I don’t know. I won’t even recognise her.’

  ‘Please, Donald.’

  ‘No. No.’

  ‘Well, I’ve brought drinks for you,’ I said, swishing the carrier bag. ‘Why don’t we just go down there for a drink? Have a look at the rooms? I’ve got plenty of drink.’

  Donald looked at the carrier.

  ‘Well … I … oh, aye … go on, then,’ he replied, sitting up straighter.

  Once the Warzones got going, Donald slowly warmed to the idea of seeing his daughter again. He offered me a coat that smelled of vinegar, which I politely declined, then we set off. By the time we got down to West Green Road, Donald was in much higher spirits, yelling Kimberley’s life story at me, as well as the life stories of her six sisters: Nicola, Stacey, Rose, Mary-Ann, Joanne, and Anastasia. When we finally got to Seven Sisters, my brain was overflowing with strange women.

  It sounded like Donald’s family had endured a horrible run of luck over the years. His first wife died aged thirty-two, from an undetected brain haemorrhage, leaving Donald to run their struggling sugar-beet farm into the ground. Donald knew only two of his four daughters from his next marriage, having given the twins, Kimberley and Anastasia, up for adoption as soon as they were born. Being Irish Catholics, him and his second wife had trouble keeping a lid on their baby production – and they also had trouble with their finances. Shortly after giving up the twins, Donald’s second wife turned against him, when he lost his job as a gravedigger, under what he described as ‘terrible circumstances’. His ex-wife stayed in touch with the couples from England who took Kimberley and Anastasia under their wings, and occasionally relayed stories to Donald’s second cousin Andrea, who passed them on to Donald at her annual Christmas visits to the battleship-grey building. However, both of Kimberley’s foster parents tragically passed away when she was in her teens, pushing her into a life of heavy drinking, hopelessness and, before long, homelessness. Apart from the shaky scraps of information he received from Andrea each year, Donald knew very little about young Kimberley. I hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed when he met her.

  ‘What went wrong with the gravedigging, then?’ I asked, as we stepped down into the warm, sweet smell of the station. ‘What were these “terrible circumstances”?’

  ‘I got caught play— I got the sack,’ Donald stated.

  ‘Why didn’t you get a different job? Like, a normal one?’ I asked, feeding money into the machine for Donald’s Travelcard.

  ‘Well, I’m not exactly normal, love,’ he replied, tapping his left foot again. ‘Something bad happened. Something I done I shouldn’t have done.’

  ‘Ah, you’re as normal as anyone,’ I said, giving him a nudge. Having said that, some people take ‘normal’ as a derogatory term, although these are usually people with no personality to speak of – those who wear traffic cones on their heads at the weekend, to make up for wearing a suit the rest of the week.

  ‘What was the bad thing you did?’ I asked.

  Donald shuddered and laughed, still tapping that foot.

  ‘Ah, I could show you … but then I’d have to kill you,’ he replied, grinning. He was a strange old fruit.

  As me and Donald made our way through the barriers, I got a bit of a start, spotting another black, hooded figure purchasing a Twix from the news stand. My lungs gulped. I snuck in front of Donald, kept my head down and scuttled as quickly as possible onto the escalator.

  My heart was still pounding by the time me and Don got sat down on the Ghost Train. For some reason, half the people in the carriage couldn’t stop staring at us, while the other half couldn’t bear to look at us, keeping their eyes on their laps. In the reflective glass, I couldn’t decide who looked weirder: the ladyboy or the tramp.

  When we got out at Shepherd’s Bush, even the sun couldn’t bear to look at us, shamefully shaking its head behind a long cirrus. We crossed over to the green and made a beeline for the Wethouse. I told Donald to wait on a bench with the Warzones while I went in to talk to Malcolm’s dad, and find Kimberley.

  As I stepped away from the bench, to the fizzing torpedo sound of a can being opened, I realised I’d forgotten to spike Donald’s pad with Rat Killer. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to go back there, though.

  I licked my fingers and wiped at the stubble. I wasn’t looking forward to getting collared by the gang – it was bad enough being teased about the Guillotine. As it turned out, though, the disguise finally worked its magic: dressed like that, I must’ve seemed like your average drunken jester, and I managed to slip through the foyer unnoticed. Malcolm’s dad looked busy in the office, dealing with a bald shouter, so I headed straight for Kimberley’s dormitory, down the tangerine corridor. I body-swerved the laundry trolley at the bottom of the square-spiral staircase, then skipped up the steps, selling a strewn Stella can a dummy on my way up.

  I stopped to get my breath back outside Kimberley’s door, then knocked three times on the chipped paintwork. No reply. I tried the handle, bracing myself for another outburst of ‘Die, die’, or Impromptu Suicide Attempt #10. However, her room was empty. The broken curtain-rail and the ripped cider can winked, I think, catching the sunlight. I shut the door, then looked up and down the corridor for Kimberley’s noose-like ponytail. The whole place seemed eerily quiet, though – just the distant hissing and creaking of lager cans, and the soft yawn of doors gently opening and closing.

  I decided to go for a wander. The hostel clock said 11.56 a.m. – the gang were probably out parading the pavements, or tucking into the Halloween leftovers in the mess hall. I marched back down the square-spiral staircase, treating the Stella can to a nifty step-over this time. When I got to the bottom, I spotted my favourite daysnorer standing outside the TV lounge, halfheartedly mopping the lino.

  ‘Malcolm!’ I shouted. I hadn’t seen Malcolm much since the incident at the Ristorante – he kept himself to himself at work, doing the odd job for the old dears in the kitchens, or hiding away in the office. I don’t think he ever asked any of the drunks to squeeze him.

  ‘You’re late,’ Malcolm stated, handing me the mop. While I wasn’t expecting an open-armed embrace, a smile or a nod might’ve been nice. To be fair, though, I was almost four hours late for work, and Malcolm had been drafted in to cover my shift. And it just so happened I was on toilet and floor duty that morning.

  ‘Ah, sorry, I haven’t been feeling that good,’ I said. I didn’t mention the ankles, humandirt, vomit, Marilyn or Warzones – Malcolm looked constantly confused as it was. He gazed at me with his huge, bottomless eyes and said, ‘I done all your mopping.’

  ‘I appreciate it, Malcolm. You’re a star,’ I said, proppin
g the mop in the wheelie-bucket. ‘Why’s it so quiet today? Where’s the gang?’

  ‘Capital Dungeons. But I had to mop.’

  I nodded. It sounded like Malcolm was talking with his mouth full of water, drowning in his own voice. I hoped I hadn’t ruined his day, or his week. I asked him, ‘Any idea where Kimberley is?’

  Malcolm frowned, but said nothing. I glanced through the frosted glass in the door to the TV lounge, but couldn’t make out any bodies. Malcolm whispered, ‘Don’t go in there. There’s big dangers.’

  ‘What is it? Wet? I’ll only be a sec,’ I said, pushing the door open. As I stepped inside, Malcolm made a moaning sound and protested again, ‘Don’t. Please. The pasta m—’

  But it was too late. Taking up one of the sofas in the empty lounge, Mr Wednesday, Friday and Saturday were sitting with crossed arms and legs. They had cans of lager on the go, and Bargain Hunt muted on the telly. It didn’t look like a party.

  ‘As if! Alright, lads,’ I said, trying to stay calm, though I was rattling inside. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Graham told us you worked here,’ Mr Wednesday said, referring to Malcolm’s dad. Mr Wednesday looked strange, wearing sunglasses indoors on an overcast afternoon.

  ‘Can we have a word?’ Mr Friday asked, scratching his basketball belly under his sweatsuit.

  ‘What about?’ I asked.

  ‘Compensation,’ Mr Wednesday replied. ‘For that scene in the restaurant.’

  Mr Wednesday slammed his can down on the coffee table for dramatic effect. A chill went through me, but I was convinced I could reason with the lads. I said, ‘I’m sorry. I was just trying to be nice to you all.’

  ‘You’re nice?’ Ghanaian Mr Saturday scoffed. ‘You are fucky prostitute. Now you do us for free.’

  ‘Just take us in one of the dorms, and we’ll forget all about it,’ Mr Wednesday reiterated. From his suit pocket, he removed a pack of red Pleasuremax condoms and dropped them onto the coffee table, next to the can.

  Oh, the romance. I know George Best got a lot of action in his life, but this was ridiculous. The daftest thing was the look on the men’s faces – to them, there wasn’t a hint of shame or irony in slamming down a pack of johnnies and demanding a four-way. By being nice to my weekly lovers, and occasionally letting them get their legs over, I’d skewed their grasp of traditional courtship niceties.

  ‘Fuck off,’ I snapped, forgetting my niceties, too. Before the men had a chance to grab me and bundle me into one of the bedrooms, I stormed out of the TV lounge, and made a dash for the exit.

  ‘You fuck off!’ Mr Saturday shouted after me, ingeniously.

  I couldn’t believe this was the thanks I got for shagging them (and nearly-but-not-quite murdering them with Molotov cocktails). I kicked off the stilettos and held on to my chest as the dormitory door numbers hurtled past, causing all sorts of blurry, confusing mathematics in my peripheral vision. Behind me, I could hear my weekly exes mumbling and grumbling, no doubt weighing up the pros and cons of chasing after me and gang-raping me. My lungs burned with lactic acid. I was almost free of the Wethouse when, suddenly, door 22 swung open, and a glum two-headed monster appeared.

  ‘Lads! Lads! Help!’ I yelped, grabbing Shaun and Sean as they trundled out into the corridor. Unfortunately, the two-headed monster didn’t recognise me. Shaun clapped eyes on my fake Manchester football top, saw red, and shoved me to the ground to the sound of

  Fucking Man U

  Leave it

  Fucking

  I forgot fucking Man U had been instrumental in losing Shaun and Sean’s five grand. I wailed, landing knees-first on the linoleum. Before I could explain myself, I felt a gobful of saliva fly into my hair, and heard more drunken cursing. Sean held his evil twin back, saving me from a pasting, though neither seemed to realise it was their old friend Kimberly, crumpled in the corner. I got up and said nothing. It was time to take my identity crisis elsewhere.

  When I got back outside, Shepherd’s Bush Green looked more miserable than usual. Not so many years ago, it must’ve had much lusher, bushier vegetation, with real shepherds and sheep roaming about, rather than plastic ones with kids kicking and screaming on top of them. Over by the playground, I watched a group of schoolboys in emerald uniforms hacking away at a piñata. In a way, I was like that piñata – a soft bag of sweetness, being constantly battered by greedy beggars.

  I put back on the Beatles wig, in case my weekly exes were after me with only the famous Guillotine as a reference point to find me amongst the crowds. My feet were killing by the time I got back to the bench. Donald’s eyes wobbled when he caught sight of me, having a bit of trouble focusing through the transparent napalm of the Warzones.

  ‘Sorry, Donald, I couldn’t sort anything out,’ I sniffed. ‘And I’m leaving. I’ve got to get out of here. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Uh, wh-what?’ Donald mumbled.

  ‘I’m having a break.’

  Living in the Capital was like being in a supercharged, but ultimately doomed, relationship: you get your initial honeymoon period, where your partner tries their best to impress you, then a slow, dismal downward spiral into indifference and niggling frustration. The Capital might have all this magic and romance, but I’ve got a suspicion it’s black magic. Cheap and nasty court entertainment for the gods. Likewise, relationships seemed like cheap entertainment, too: a pointless, beautiful nuisance.

  ‘But what about … where’s Kimberley?’ Donald groaned, sitting up. He inspected one of his empty Warzones for spare drips, then placed it back on the pavement, disheartened.

  ‘I think she’s gone, too,’ I explained. ‘I can’t find her.’

  I wished I could give Donald some kind of gesture before I left. I wanted to offer him the rest of the Warzones, but it looked like he’d polished them off already. Crushed, in the bottom of the carrier, the Hall’s Soothers looked unappealing and unimaginative. So, I rummaged through my handbag, and removed a bronze housekey on a silver AAA athletics keyring.

  ‘Look,’ I said, handing Donald the keyring, ‘you don’t want to stay in the Wethouse anyway. It’s full of trouble. Erm, see, cos I’ve got to say bye now but, if you want, you can stay at my flat. I’m going to pick up some stuff just now, but then it’s all yours. There’s still five or six months left on the tenancy thing – and all the rent’s paid this month, and there’s money on the electric …’

  ‘What?’ Donald mumbled, again.

  ‘Obviously, like, winter’s on its way,’ I went on, ‘and I don’t want you freezing to death in that squat. Just, er … well, if you promise to feed my hamster, you can stay in the flat till the landlord chucks you out. But he hardly even comes round …’

  It felt strange, giving away Stevie’s housekey, not that he needed it any more. And when I thought about it, there wasn’t much in the flat for Donald to break/steal/stain. My worldly possessions boiled down to a hamster, a cupboard full of clothes and a bag full of medicine, and I was taking most of that with me to Japan.

  Donald agreed to look after Lucifer – I joked he could let him out of the cage now and then, if he missed having rodents running around his feet, but Donald didn’t laugh. In fact, he seemed sad to see me go. I was aware I had plenty of wet-wipes in the Medicine Bag, so I let him shake my hand for a minute or so before I headed off to the Ghost Train station. It didn’t seem appropriate to kiss him goodbye, but I managed to rustle up some silver for him, for another can or two of Polish Warzone. I told him the address of the flat, then I walked backwards, away from the bench.

  My last memory of Donald was his dull, confused eyes, blinking away as I abandoned him. I hoped he’d find the flat alright. And I hoped he still had his Travelcard.

  As I scampered across the grass, I fantasised about stepping off the plane in Japan. I was tempted to buy some sushi for the journey back to Seven Sisters, to double-check I liked the stuff, but the fear and excitement cancelled out the hunger.

  While there was a chance I might turn
up at Heathrow to find no available flights to Tokyo, I didn’t mind camping out at the airport. It was more appealing than staying another night in Flat D, anyhow. The only real fear was losing my bottle at the last minute. It was an extreme step, jetting off to a foreign island on a whim, but I was going on the off-chance life in Japan had more to offer than my half-life in the Capital, or an afterlife six feet underground.

  I conveniently ignored the thought of arriving in a city swarming with the Yakuza, motorcycle gangs and otaku killer geeks. I focused my mind’s eye on all the humble, polite people, the peace-fingers and the pleasant scenery.

  Outside the Westfield shopping palace, a pair of Oriental girls were having their photos taken, giggling hysterically in front of H&M. That was good enough for me. As I went over the last zebra crossing, my heart was banging for all the right reasons. I nearly tripped in my socks as I mounted the kerb again, and marched towards the Holy Subterranean station. Its chipped blue signage was like a beautiful azure gateway to happiness. All it took to get through it was a pair of working legs and at least £2.50 on your Oyster card. And then I was free.

  Smiling to myself, I was about to duck into the station when something long, blonde and plaited caught my eye. It was Kimberley Clarke’s ponytail, swishing about outside Budgens. Kimberley had the same glazed look as her father as she stalked up and down the pavement, eyeing up potential benefactors for brown pennies.

  My heart stung in my chest. I wasn’t overly keen on going up to her and facing an onslaught of gobbledygook, especially since the weekly exes might still be after me, and Japan was waiting for me on the other side of the world. However, I wondered if fate had placed her in front of Budgens especially, pleading for me to reunite her with her father.

  Perhaps it was a test. Perhaps, if I ignored fate, I’d be subjected to a horrific death on the Ghost Train back to Seven Sisters. Or the plane would crash. Or I’d be just as unhappy in the Japanese Capital as I was in the English one.

  I pursed my lips and made my way over. Families were invented so lonely, hopeless people could be together, and feel loved. I pictured Donald and Kimberley getting reacquainted over a feast of Polish Warzones and cheeseburgers and chips, and having far more in common with each other than I ever did with either of them. It was to be my final act of kindness, before a move to the Far East to be selfish, normal and happy again.