Kimberly's Capital Punishment

by Richard Milward

  I feel even better now, for mauling Shaun’s throat. Turning my attention north again, on the top floor of a battleship-grey unit on Lawrence Road there’s yet more unexpected silence. While it’s difficult getting a good view into the sixth floor, thanks to the lack of electricity and abundance of shadows, I can see one of the shadows is Donald-shaped, and it’s moving. In fact, it’s writhing its pelvis. Donald’s been in a great mood since his cough disappeared. Almost four years back, when I gorged myself on the six loved-up rats in Don’s squat, little did I know it’d cure Donald’s cough as well as my hunger. Little did I know rat urine and droppings can cause respiratory problems. Little did I know it’d save the old sod’s life.

  Cooing at the moon, I feel humbled by such a strange, serendipitous chain of good fortune. While the Capital can smash your spirit, it can also surprise you with the most fantastic, life-affirming splendour. It’s the extremes that keep you entertained.

  Stepping into a shard of silky moonflash, Donald carries on swivelling his hips for a bit before putting on his work clothes. His work clothes consist of: black trenchcoat, white shirt, black tie, white underwear, black cap, and white, soil-flecked sports socks. After the death of his daughter Kimberley, and his best friend Kimberly, Donald wandered the cemeteries of the Capital to find not only the grave of his spawn and special friend, but a job as well. Fortunately, he’s being paid cash-in-hand by the church, so there’s no need for them to find out he’s got no fixed address. And no need to worry about tax. And no need to worry about paltry cheeseburgers and chips any more, either. Donald takes the last bite of the Smoked Bacon and Cheddar Double Angus Burger he’s been working on for the past half an hour, readying himself for another morning gravedigging. To complete the outfit, Donald slides his soil-flecked sports socks into a pair of new shoes. Sadly, they’re not okeetee snakeskin loafers, like I’d hoped. Instead, Donald leaves the building wearing matching, shop-bought black brogues, clacking his heels as he strides into the crisp morning air. I cackle into my wing. It looks as if Donald well and truly fucked death up the arse after all …

  By the time I lose sight of Donald, it’s nearly dawn. The Capital’s curtains begin to blink at me, then, over the course of the next hour or so, house after house spits its weary residents out onto the street. In celebration of my bad past actions accidentally causing some good fortune, I go for a victory lap around the common. I leave the Christmas bauble hanging on its branch and hurl myself at the sky. It’s strenuous at first, getting my wing muscles going, before the cold airstream catches my sails and sends me soaring towards the clouds. As dawn turns the last of the navy blue gloom into the brightest, whitest, nicest, lightest light I might’ve ever seen, I feel brand new. I caw ‘OM ĀH HŪM’ at the dazzling void, just in case the sky’s doubling up as an entranceway to Nirvana.

  Again, I wish I’d paid more attention to the Tibetan Book of the Dead. Is this what enlightenment feels like? All through these reincarnations, I thought I was being a bastard to everyone – murdering, stealing, infecting – but, as it turns out, sometimes the interconnected nature of humanity means you can be a complete twat and still inadvertently help people out. Who knew that gobbling a few rats would cure Donald’s cough?! Who thought that mauling a man’s vocal cords would solve his problems?!

  It’s a shame most religions require an intense level of self-control, mind power and disregard for fun in order to reach the golden realms, and not just a bit of good luck. Apparently, at the moment of death, the Buddhist deities weigh up the white and black pebbles (the good and bad deeds) you’ve accumulated throughout existence, to see if you deserve promotion to demigod or Buddhahood, or relegation to a muddy puddle or helpless pinky.

  In fairness, I’m probably riddled with black pebbles. While I tried my best to be nice to everyone after Stevie’s death, you can’t force-feed people friendliness. It’s supposed to come naturally, from your sublime, empty inner radiance, not slapped on like a cheap cologne.

  As I soar ever closer to the centre of the whitest part of the white sky, I’ve got a feeling I’m not heading towards Nirvana, after all. I think I’m flying into Ryanair airspace. All of a sudden, there’s a terrifying rumble, as a gust of rocket-powered air sucks me into the path of the 6.05 a.m. FR052 from Stansted to Stockholm Skavsta.

  I smash into the aluminium nosecone, leaving behind a red mark. The wind snaps my wings, and I corkscrew back to Earth like a knackered old shuttlecock. I birdcall for help, dreading the oncoming Samsara suffering, not to mention the suffering when I hit the M11. It looks like I’m set for another set of rebirths, after all. Next time, I promise I’ll try to be selfless, though. And, if I happen to be born a human girl again, I’ll make sure I’m nice to my first and last boyfriend, and every single boyfriend in between. And I’ll make sure none of them ever go skinnydipping at Seal Sands.

  THE END

  Part 3) Kimberly the Friendly-ish Ghost

  All of a sudden, I can’t see my hands. There’s a slight crackling sound, as my body’s solids and liquids turn to gas, and the George Best costume lands in a heap between my feet.

  The Grim Reaper wolf-whistles, trying to be funny. My first instinct is to cover my privates, if only I could find them. Instead, I hover six inches above the stool, staring at the space where Kimberly Clark used to be.

  ‘Can you hear me alright?’ I ask. My voice sounds soft and reverberant, like someone’s built a miniature cathedral around my voice box. I stress, ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘Loud and clear,’ replies the Grim Reaper, after another gulp of vodka. With all the enthusiasm of an automated telephone system, he explains, ‘When it comes to paranormal communication, love, what you’ll find is: those who believe in ghostsh will be able to hear you perfectly well – and those who don’t, won’t.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, still staring at my empty stomach, ‘but no one can see me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, er … how do I know who’s a believer, then, and who’s not?’

  ‘You’ll shoon work it out,’ the Grim Reaper continues. ‘As they say: “For the believer no proof is necesshary, for the sceptic no proof is shufficient.” It can be a lonely business, like, being a ghosht – but soon enough you’ll come acrossh some nut who believes in you. Until then, you’re on your own. But if in doubt: howl.’

  I glance out of Bernard’s French windows, wondering how many lost souls are toiling throughout the Capital right now, wasting their breath.

  ‘So, what now, then?’ I ask.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, like, what should we do? Do you still want me to play this Subbuteo thing?’

  I levitate the Bestie figurine again, making him float in front of his teammates.

  ‘No chance,’ the Reaper snaps. ‘You’ll jusht cheat, won’t you, now you’re invisible.’

  I lower Bestie down again. I go to rest my forehead on the edge of the table, but my whole transparent skull goes straight through it, painlessly. I sit up again. I wonder if I could stick Bernard’s kitchen knives through my chest, and not feel it. Then again, I’m not sure the Reaper would appreciate me levitating sharp objects around Bernard’s soft furnishings.

  Mr Death raps his phalanges on the work surface restlessly. They say more than fifty per cent of language is body language, so I guess the Reaper’s finding me quite hard to read. I swipe my hands back and forth through the table legs, marvelling at my superpowers. However, as far as the Reaper’s concerned, I’m doing nothing.

  Five minutes later, the Gold Telephone goes off. It cuts through the silence like an infernal fire alarm. The Grim Reaper stiffens and slams the vodka bottle back down on the melamine. It must be God on the other end, the way his bones start rattling.

  ‘Fuck it. You’d better go,’ the Reaper says. He must be talking to me, although his eye-sockets are trained on the empty stool next to me. The Grim Reaper yanks open Bernard’s French windows, and wafts me through the gap with one flap of his gown. I don�
��t even have time to fold up the George Best gear, or help put away Subbuteo. I don’t even get a goodbye.

  It’s windy out. As I fly over the balcony, a stiff westerly catches me and sends me hurtling across the Capital at about number 6 on the Beaufort scale. From up here, the city looks exactly as it did in my old A–Z Street Atlas, although it’s difficult to navigate without all the roadnames printed on the tarmac.

  When I eventually land on Oxford Circus, no one bats an eyelid. Twenty-odd cars blast through me obliviously as I make my way onto the pavement by Benetton. For the rest of the afternoon, passers-by stare straight through me, occasionally zipping up their collars and complaining of a nasty chill in the air, though none of them respond when I formally attempt conversation. I hover sadly down the backstreets, trying to kick the litter, but it’s difficult when you’re six inches off the ground.

  Despite the sadness, I soon adapt to being a ghost – after all, I’ve always felt I suffered from invisibility, ever since I was a little girl. That’s what an inferiority complex (and ginger hair) does to you.

  Supposedly, the Capital’s one of the most haunted cities in the world, but it’s not easy finding any friendly ghosts when they’re all bloody transparent. Then again, ghosts aren’t known for their great personalities. From what I’ve heard, most ghosts are pathetic. They just come round your house and move a few cups and saucers, or force you into turning up your thermostat, resulting in slightly higher gas bills. I, on the other hand, want to have some real fun …

  Rather than hiding people’s car keys, or scaring shoppers in Marks & Spencer’s bedsheet department, I spend my first week of ghostliness trying to make people feel happy. Ghosts get a bad press, after all, thanks to horror films and camping stories – no wonder they all shy away in the attics of old, dilapidated houses, moaning to themselves.

  We’re just the same as any normal human being, only without the perishable packaging. And there’s plenty of potential for entertainment, when people can’t see you. For instance, here’s a few simple ideas for having a gas in the Capital, when you’re a gas: apprehend potential burglars/aggressors/jobsworths/charity workers by making their shoelaces tie themselves together; gatecrash a group photograph, in glowing apparition form; penetrate your favourite football team’s/actor’s/musician’s dressing room; air-condition the Love Train; peer through people’s flesh, looking for tumours/blocked arteries/swallowed spiders; help crippled old ladies return heavy objects to high places; spoil a seance, by spelling out daft demands on the Ouija board; return to someone who betrayed/badmouthed you (e.g. the owner of an internet caff) and torment them mercilessly (e.g. hide their mousemats, unplug their wireless routers, cause a devastating electrical fire) …

  After a few days, the jokes wear thin. Rather than entertaining gormless, oblivious strangers, it strikes me I must’ve left behind some unfinished mortal business, not to mention a lot of dirty plates and pants in Flat D. It’s a shame you can’t prepare for the moment of your death. Even if you put on fresh knickers before downing thirteen Panadol and four Smirnoff Ices, there’s nothing to say your bowels won’t expel an excessive amount of excrement the second your heart stops.

  And it’s a shame you might not have tidied your flat, the day a grey Ford Mondeo runs you over.

  So, instead of drifting about aimlessly, I decide to get my act together, and head back to Tottenham. I jump unseen on the back of the 73, and as the eel-like bus slithers through the city, it occurs to me I must’ve left all sorts of embarrassing artefacts in that flat (from a bucketful of fingerprints, to a peed-in saucepan, to a shagged-on shower curtain), and I desperately need to feed Lucifer.

  The thought that strikes me as I float towards the halal butcher’s is: did I buy enough washing powder before I died? I stall for a second outside the building, forgetting I don’t have to do the new trick with the door. After hopping safely through the plywood, I pretend to rub my feet on the doormat, then slide up the banister on my backside, defying gravity. I want to say ‘Hello’ to Mr and Mrs C when they emerge from Flat C, but I doubt they’d be pleased to hear from me. Not only did I ruin one of their evenings, when their Panasonic TV was stolen, but – by the look of his internal organs – Mr C’s on the verge of a heart attack, and I don’t want to startle him.

  Three floors up, I find the door of Flat D unlocked, with the sound of someone banging inside. New tenants already? My molecules grow colder as I remember handing Donald Stevie’s spare housekey on Shepherd’s Bush Green. I wonder if he’s moved in already, only to find I live in a personalised squalor not completely dissimilar to his own rats’ nest of mould and mess. After saying farewell to Don, my intention had been to head straight here and spring-clean, before setting sail for Japan – but I hadn’t quite got that far.

  As I hover over the threshold, the flat looks surprisingly tidy – bare, even. A pair of shiny brown brogues sit by the skirting board – and they’re definitely not Donald’s. Intrigued, I move further into the flat, gently lift the cloth off the dining table, and whip it over my gaseous form. Then, I creep through the half-empty living space, towards the banging, and into the bedroom.

  ‘Boo!’ I shout, causing my old landlord to make one final bang as he turns and catches his kneecap on the side of the dressing table.

  ‘Chaa—’ Mr Henry croaks in fright, forgetting his English.

  He looks like a mutant magpie, dressed in a black, white, emerald and indigo sports jacket, and tight, flesh-coloured chinos. I laugh at first, until I notice the cardboard boxes filled with my stuff, each labelled AUCHTION. And then I notice my two favourite necklaces – one of which was my last joint birthday present from Mag and Barry – hanging around his neck, like worms in chainmail.

  ‘What are you doing?!’ I bellow, lifting my arms, so the white tablecloth appears more menacing, despite the food stains and embroidered flowers around the hem.

  ‘Who are you?’ Mr Henry asks, quivering. Ghosts are powerful beings, causing men and women to be scared of thin air. I remember Mr Henry mentioning he was a believer, back when he came to fix my leaking, crying ceiling – hence he’s the first mere mortal to hear my words. Apparently he knows everything there is to know about the spirit world – I just hope he doesn’t think I’m a member of the Ku Klux Klan, the way I’m dressed.

  ‘Your … dead tenant, you daft sod,’ I spout, needing a pause there to think up the right retort.

  ‘Wh-what?’

  ‘Look,’ I say, pointing at the blank space where my feet should be. But he can’t see me pointing.

  Mr Henry backs, beetle-like, into the corner of the bedroom, shaking his head.

  ‘I’m Kimberly,’ I stress. ‘I haven’t been dead a week. What are you doing with my stuff?’

  ‘I-I … shit, shit, shit … I … we could not find her nexts-of-kins,’ Mr Henry says, referring to me like I’m not here – although, I guess, in one way or another, I’m not.

  ‘And what have you done with my TV, and all that?’ I snap, gesturing at the empty spaces in my living space.

  ‘No, no. There was no TV,’ Mr Henry answers. ‘I have been trying to do you favour. When I come here, I find homeless bum broken in. So I kick him out. Maybe he steal your TV.’

  I shift uneasily underneath the tablecloth. It’s upsetting enough, finding my landlord graverobbing my old flat, let alone hearing he’s forcibly removed Donald, too. I say to Mr Henry, ‘No, that was a friend. He was a friend. I gave him the key. He wouldn’t steal anything …’

  ‘Well, you don’t tell me he was on the contract.’

  I can’t believe I’m discussing my tenancy agreement in the afterlife. I let out a strong, gusting sigh, and scold, ‘Well, you’re the one who’s been rifling through my necklaces, anyway. And why’s all this stuff boxed up?’

  I flap my tablecloth in the direction of the AUCHTION boxes. In the nearest one, I recognise my dotty cardigan, my turquoise bustier and an empty photo frame, which me and Stevie used to smile out of.

/>   ‘I was just trying to help,’ Mr Henry insists, with his arms wrapped around himself. ‘To help lift money for the funeral. I swear to you.’

  When he says the word ‘funeral’, my molecules ripple uncomfortably again. I realise my corpse must still be above ground, somewhere in the Capital. I hope someone’s looking after me. And I hope I’ve still got my figure.