Kimberly's Capital Punishment

by Richard Milward

  ‘When’s the funeral?’ I ask, softer now.

  ‘It Tuesday.’

  ‘That’s ages.’

  ‘No, they try to do sooner, but it been so so hard to find your nexts-of-kins.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’

  Gingerly, Mr Henry edges towards the door, with a face like a piece of lost property.

  ‘So, I, er … are you continue to live here?’ he asks, scratching himself. ‘Or do you leave?’

  ‘I’ll see how I feel,’ I reply. I understand now why ghosts are seen as such a nuisance – we’re the cheerless chaff left behind when someone dies. No doubt Mr Henry was hoping to have new tenants in Flat D before the end of the week – however, his property has just become a hell of a lot less lettable.

  ‘So, I just leave you to it then, yes?’ Mr Henry asks, still side-stepping along the skirting.

  ‘Yeah, go on.’

  ‘So, you be there at the funeral?’

  ‘I reckon I’ll have to be, don’t you?’ I say, on a roll with the existential irony, but it’s lost on him. ‘Where is it, like?’

  ‘The, what’s it now, Catholic’s church, down the Shepherd’s Bush. It Tuesday, yes? Three o’clock p.m. I see you there?’

  ‘I might be hard to spot.’

  Mr Henry lets out a nervous snigger-sniff, then scuttles all the way out of the bedroom with his shoulders hunched. On his way out, he trips over the metal threshold strip, just to make his afternoon worse.

  ‘I swear, I did not take the TV,’ Mr Henry adds, almost in a whisper, as he stalls to slip his brown brogues back on. He struggles with the laces, then rushes out of the flat without saying anything more. The air displacement from the slammed door nearly blows me backwards, into the open wardrobe.

  Underneath the tablecloth, I’m seething again. Mr Henry might not have stolen my TV, but the bastard still has my best jewellery around his neck. I shout after him, but there’s no answer. Grumbling, I quickly rearrange my molecules, then swing the cloth off myself and race after him.

  It’s still blowing a gale outside. After jumping, feather-light, out of the third-floor window, I quickly catch up with Mr Henry. I remove the necklaces with one smooth levitation, then stalk him down the rest of the High Road, breathing down his neck and whispering demonic tittle-tattle into his earholes. I follow him all the way to the Somerfield at Stamford Hill, and ruin his weekly shop by replacing all his groceries with white 8–9yrs elasticated knickers and beef onions, as he trudges up and down the aisles.

  The angrier he becomes, the more of a lunatic he seems:

  ‘Stop it, please!’ he growls, talking to himself. I cackle quietly, under my breath. In the pets aisle, I try to hook a dog collar and leash around his neck, but my lassoing technique isn’t up to much. Instead, I swap his bourbon biscuits for dog biscuits; his porridge oats for sawdust; his Stagg chilli for Pedigree Chum; and I almost swap his Kellogg’s for hamster flakes, when a terrible thought hits me:

  I’ve forgotten all about Lucifer.

  I’m not sure what to wear for my funeral. After feeding Lucifer up on luxury flakes and pellets, I try on a few outfits from the AUCHTION boxes, but they all make me look like a spook, what with no face or hands. And Stevie’s black balaclava and gloves make me look even worse – like I’m in the IRA. In the end, I plump for my birthday suit.

  Come Tuesday, I’m a nervous wreck, shiver-hovering down Uxbridge Road. I wonder if most ghosts go to their own funerals. I’ve been to more funerals in my lifetime than all my weddings, christenings and pop concerts put together, and I’ve noticed a theme: the relatives always make a speech about how they’re sure [insert dead person’s name here] is looking over them, and how [dead person] would be so pleased to see all the people joined together in honour of [dead person’s] marvellous life.

  Ghosts are insecure. They just want to make sure people cry over them, as if you can measure the importance of your own life in litres. The better the person, the wetter the funeral.

  When I finally reach the church, I’m flattered to see an overwhelming congregation, in an ensemble of clashing blacks, huddled around a fresh gravestone. I must’ve touched a lot of people, after all. Strangely, though, as I edge closer, I only recognise a few faces: my Promiscuous Pal Polly, Shaun and Sean, Mr Thursday and his daughters, Malcolm and his dad, and Donald shiver at the front of a crowd of complete strangers. Maybe these are people I’ve helped over the course of my life and since forgotten, although it’s hard to tell if their faces are grieving, or merely bored. They look almost like cardboard cut-outs, drafted in to pad out the congregation.

  I was hoping for a soaking wet, salty funeral. Instead, it’s as dry as a Business Maths and Accountancy seminar.

  ‘Kimberly was a well-liked pillar of the community; a woman with a heart of gold. It is with great remorse that we see someone of such a warm, compassionate nature be taken from the Earth under such tragic circumstances,’ the priest drawls without any conviction, no doubt inserting [my dead person’s name] into the same fluffy template he uses at every funeral.

  All around us, the trees are these tall, terrifying things, like old ladies’ fingers. I wonder if all clergymen plant sinister vegetation in their graveyards, to add to the effect at funerals. Or is it the fertiliser from rotten corpses that twists the trees into these frightful poses?

  I slide closer to the congregation, to double-double-check for tears. Polly’s the only one welling up, her eyelids flickering like half-dead moths. Next to her, Shaun and Sean keep their eyes fixed on the cemetery gates, like they don’t want to be here. I don’t, either.

  ‘Kimberly was an avid fan of … music, cuisine, socialising, and she would never be seen without the latest eyeshadow, or the latest handbag,’ the priest carries on, with a false smile.

  What a load of shite!

  ‘And now, let us join together in a moment of reflection, as we listen to a song of Kimberly’s own choosing. It’s … ahem … two seconds, where am … oh yeah, Kool & the Gang. Yes.’

  I shrink back into the shrubbery. Trust the priest to fluff his lines at my funeral. I can hardly watch as ‘Celebration’ squeaks out of the church’s portable ghetto-blaster. When I was alive, I thought Kool & the Gang might help lift the spirits of a genuinely grief-stricken, 100-strong congregation – instead, everyone looks embarrassed. My mourners keep their eyes to the ground, munching their bottom lips, shuffling about uneasily. I feel awful. My funeral congregation wants to go and fucking kill itself.

  Clearly, awkward people have awkward friends, and awkward funerals. I wish I had the guts to put on Polly’s black cloche hat and tell everyone not to worry; to just throw me in the ground as quickly as possible, and head to the pub. I want to put them out of their put-on misery. I want to scream, ‘I’m back!’ and dance on my coffin but, then again, I don’t want the priest to start quoting lines from The Exorcist at me, and banish me altogether from Earth. So, I decide to stay put.

  Throughout ‘Celebration’ the sun thinks about poking her head out from behind the clouds, to help lighten the mood, but it’s all too cringeworthy, even for her. She cowers behind the cloud cover, cheeks burning with shame.

  And that’s when the cassette tape begins to ruckle. As if the song wasn’t daft enough, the 4/4 beat speeds up to about 1,000 bpm, unspooling Kool and his gang. The singers sound like tickled guinea pigs. The kick drums sound like steelpans. The bass sounds like birdsong.

  My true friends, Polly and Mr Thursday, keep their heads respectfully bowed – however, the hilarity’s too much for some of the others: the cardboard cut-outs come to life, guffawing and firing semi-digested buffet pork pies from their nostrils. And funeral laughter’s the most contagious laughter of all. Donald gyrates his hips, biting his lips; Mr Thursday has to grasp his daughters’ wrists, to stop them from joining in; Shaun’s shoulders shake; Sean shakes his head. Only Polly, dressed in a black PVC dress and knee-length fur coat, stays motionless. Her eyes carry on flickering, as some of the ‘m
ourners’ break into song, getting all the words wrong: ‘Cel-e-brate good times, for all! Cel-e-brate good times, yeah … for all!’

  I shudder back into the shadows. It makes you think: humans are all pointless, forgettable, ephemeral. Seeing people laugh at my funeral makes me wonder why I bothered toiling and troubling myself for twenty-four years. It makes me wish I’d been a miscarriage, or a cot death.

  The congregation carry on prodding each other and masticating and laughing and singing, even when the music stops. And with that, Polly chucks her black dahlias on top of my falling, coffee-coloured coffin, and steps away from the bastards. Mr Thursday tries to touch her arm, but his hands are still full of his children’s arms, and she gets away.

  I wait for her to reach the furthest weeping willow, then I give chase, tailing my best friend like a second, see-through shadow.

  I follow Polly to the nearest Ghost Train station, and down down down the escalators to the blood red line. At Tottenham Court Road, she changes onto the death black line, and heads south.

  As the train sets off, I curl myself around one of the clammy handrails, listening to Polly coughing violently into her mitt. Travelling on the death black line is like having a long fag break. It’s the deepest of all the Subterranean train lines and, apparently, a forty-minute journey has the same effect on your lungs as smoking two cigarettes.

  I glance about the carriage. Everyone’s faces are glazed; lost in fantasy. Due to its library-like silence, the Ghost Train is the perfect place to catch up on your reading, or have a long, hard think. I wonder what’s going on in Polly’s head. She does look classically depressed when she gets off at Tooting Broadway. She slopes slowly down Mitcham Road, with all the purpose of someone walking down Death Row. I keep on her tail, praying she doesn’t do anything daft.

  I cringe every time she crosses the road. When you’re depressed, the Green Cross Code changes. You don’t have to look both ways, and you tend not to bother with the green man. The idea of a Ford Mondeo taking your life away seems strangely appealing.

  As Polly slumps past the markets, some of the fat, foreign stallholders whoop at her. Polly’s head dips even further. It’s bad enough being ogled in your best clobber, let alone when you’re feeling despondent, with no make-up, in mourning clothes.

  I don’t miss the men of the Capital much. One advantage of being invisible is you can walk past groups of randy bastards stark naked, and none of them bat an eyelid. To spite the whooping stallholders, I push over their rails of knock-off basketball tops and school cardigans, and spill their teas. Polly carries on towards Amen Corner, with her head ducked. When we get to Welham Road, we walk four paces apart, dodging the leaves falling like large, rusted teardrops.

  I gasp when a lady’s pushbike almost collides with Polly, on the corner of Welham and Idlecombe. The lady tuts. It’s not even rush-hour yet, and Polly’s already got a twisted ankle and a slap on the wrist. Fortunately, she’s only a block or two from her house. I keep my eyes peeled for banana peels, or spilt petrol, or anything else that might put her life at risk, until she’s safely at the doorstep of number 5.

  Polly must’ve bought a new black handbag for the funeral, because she takes forever fumbling with the fastening before she finds her keys. She slides the bronze Yale one into the slot, and frowns. For some reason, the door won’t open. She jiggles the key, but still no joy. Frustrated, she gang-rapes the lock with the rest of her keys, until one of them snaps, embedding itself in the metal slit.

  ‘Shit,’ Polly says gruffly, the way men do when they lose a condom in your slit.

  Disconcerted, Polly bashes hard six times on the stained glass. She’s hardly finished the first couple of bashes, when a dark shape comes to the door. Strange, really, because Polly lives alone, apparently. Surely it’s not another intrusive landlord, playing dress-up with her jewellery? Polly sways nervously from foot to foot as the door creaks open. It stops creaking when the new security chain pulls taut, then the handsome/horrifying face of Mr No Tomorrow appears. He’s dressed in one of her silk dressing gowns, and his black hair’s slicked back, fresh from a shower.

  ‘Honey, you back!’ he announces, grinning unconvincingly. Mr No Tomorrow shuts the door again, undoes the chain, then reopens it and kindly welcomes Polly into her own fucking home.

  Polly says nothing, like she’s completely exhausted with life, and doesn’t want to fight any more. She steps inside, slumping sadly along the wall of the small hallway, with her back to the crusted ketchup stains. Mr No Tomorrow tries to slam the door in my face. I flinch, before remembering I’m invincible.

  ‘Where you been, wifey?’ he asks in a threatening tone, although he probably thinks he’s being friendly. Polly’s shoulders crumple.

  ‘Kimberly’s funeral,’ she mumbles, looking at me but not looking at me. The three of us form a flimsy Mexican stand-off in the tight corridor.

  Mr No Tomorrow twists his face into something resembling sympathy. He puts his arm around her shoulder, and attempts to cuddle her. Shrugging him off, Polly snaps, ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘I … we should be more like the old times,’ Mr No Tomorrow replies, not sure where to put his hands now. He hangs them awkwardly by his sides, until next time.

  ‘No; how? How did you get in?’

  ‘Oh. Bathroom window was open.’

  The colour drains from Polly’s face. Despite being a semi-famous maneater in the Capital, she looks ever so small and feeble now. Then again, just because you sleep with a lot of people, it doesn’t mean you’re self-confident and secure. Polly shifts about uncomfortably, no doubt racking her brains for the whereabouts of knives, poisons and heavy, blunt instruments dotted about the house. I catch her eyeing up one of her stray stilettos: a six-incher, with a pointed, steel heel.

  ‘You’ve changed the fucking locks,’ she hisses.

  ‘Don’t use foul language,’ Mr No Tomorrow scolds, trying to be the good guy. ‘I just thought that we could try again.’

  Polly sighs, nearly gusting me back out through the letterbox.

  ‘Like this?’

  ‘Like this. I thought we could get quick, lavish wedding and be happy together.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Please, Pauly, I desperate.’

  I remember Mr No Tomorrow saying he was desperate, back when he was trying to woo (solicit) me at the Ristorante di Fantasia. It’s mad how some lads think announcing their desperation will endear them to the opposite sex: the last resort for the relentlessly rejected. Lads have never been good at expressing their emotions – especially when they try to spew them all out at once.

  ‘I don’t care,’ Polly says, backing into the living room. I stand between them, trying to form a protective barrier, but I’m far too faint.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ Mr No Tomorrow whines, changing his tack. He seems to think simultaneously apologising and squeezing her arm will help win her back.

  ‘Fuck off!’ Polly squeals. ‘I’m phoning the police!’

  ‘It was not breaking and entering.’

  ‘Fuck off! You’re a sick bastard. And you shat in my back garden!’

  ‘No! I shit? No!’

  ‘Don’t deny it!’

  ‘I love you,’ Mr No Tomorrow states, clutching at straws now. Again, Polly has trouble wrestling with her bag fastening, not to mention wrestling with Mr No Tomorrow. He keeps yanking at her arms, like he’s trying to force her into a cuddle, as well as stop her from phoning the police. Polly screams, on the verge of tears again. They cat and mouse through the house, Polly wailing through her teeth as she keeps struggling with her bag. She runs up the stairs, probably with a mind to find a suitable solvent to spray into Mr No Tomorrow’s eye-sockets.

  ‘Please,’ I hear, from behind us. ‘Let us work this out. Please. Please. Please.’

  It’s true that you never know what you’ve got until it’s gone, but there’s no need to break into your ex’s house and change the locks, just because she won’t o
pen the door to you. And worse still is pretending this behaviour is normal. I’ve never known what nationality Mr No Tomorrow is, but I’m sure this isn’t the traditional courtship ritual over there.

  ‘No,’ Polly stresses. ‘There’s nothing to work out.’

  As you’d expect, the relentlessly rejected don’t take extra rejection well. Successful, happy people become more or less immune to – or even bored by – extra success and happiness, but the low people just keep getting lower.

  ‘You evil … evil!’ Mr No Tomorrow booms, with venom in his eyes. I’ve got no choice but to step in. Concentrating hard, I swiftly tie his shoelaces together in a triple knot. You heard me – a tripler. Not only should this save Polly from his clutches, it might also save Mr No Tomorrow from committing suicide the same way as Stevie (if he’s that way inclined). He’s never going to undo that knot with those nails.

  Mr No Tomorrow tumbles forward with his arms outstretched, like an invisible rug’s been pulled out from underneath him. Polly squeals as he hits the deck, but it’s a relieved squeal. Fortunately, Mr No Tomorrow doesn’t break his beautiful cheekbones on the skirting board. As he lies there, contemplating the carpet, I do feel a mixture of aversion and affinity with Mr No Tomorrow – it’s not easy being unloved in a city teeming with strangers. But, then again, it’s not easy being overloaded with love, either. If you’re going to be promiscuous, you’ve got to be prepared to break some hearts – but you’ve also got to be aware that some of those hearts might not take no for an answer.

  While Mr No Tomorrow works out how to stand up again, Polly charges down the stairs and back out of the house. She probably feels safer in the street – the windows of the other terraces feel like eye-witnesses, even if the folk behind them are just watching their TVs, oblivious.

  Without Mr No Tomorrow breathing down her neck, Polly manages to compose herself, and yanks her black bag open once and for all. She finds her phone easily, then dials 999, with shaking sable-polished nails.