She seems far too overdressed to be in such distress. The fur coat and cloche hat give the impression of a glamorous 1920s gangland bust, while the bomping and crashing going on inside 5 Welham Road sounds more like Marxist slapstick. When the Necropolitan Police turn up five minutes later, Mr No Tomorrow still hasn’t emerged from the house. Polly must’ve explained the situation wrong over the phone, because the police turn up with a battering-ram and truncheons unsheathed. She stands stock-still in the gutter, leaving the Nec to storm the house. At long last, her neighbours prise themselves away from their tellies to have a gawp out of their windows. Squinting, self-righteous faces appear, with expressions that seem to say: ‘I knew number 5 was a bleeding brothel!’ / ‘What on Earth is she wearing?’ / ‘Christ, here comes her pimp!’ / ‘Ack, another fucking foreigner. Wait till I tell [insert friend/relative/work colleague here] …’
Two brickhead policemen emerge from Polly’s house, carrying Mr No Tomorrow like a bad-tempered treetrunk. With his shoelaces still tied together and his wrists cuffed, Mr No Tomorrow can only squirm helplessly as they shove him in the back of the van. Before the cage doors shut, he manages to catch Polly’s eye and he screeches, ‘I’m desperate!’
But even number 8’s cat can see that.
After giving a statement to the Necropolitan Police, Polly enlists one of her neighbours to help rechange her locks. The bloke from number 3 has a way with women and DIY – he tries a few jokes with her while he works, but I guess Polly’s not in the mood to lose anything else in her slit just yet. Give it a week or two, at least.
After a cup of trembling tea, Polly thanks her neighbour, then sits alone in her front room with the curtains shut. The last dregs of daylight claw at her windowsill, through the gap where the curtains don’t quite join. I accidentally make her shiver a few times as I tornado across the room, deep in thought. I wish I was better company. I wish she knew she wasn’t alone. I want to talk to her, but I’m aware Polly’s a sceptic when it comes to three things: celibacy, teetotalism, and ghosts. If only her stepfather and his phasmophile pals were here, I might’ve been able to make contact.
I waft her curtains – to give her a ‘sign’ – but she probably just thinks she’s got draughty windows. After an hour or so of sitting and shaking, she gets up and slips her shoes back on. It’s easy to get sick of your own company when you live alone. So, Polly decides to go for a walk, to be alone outside instead.
I hope she’s feeling alright. She doesn’t seem to know where she’s going, clomping through the estate with her eyes to the ground. She continues crossing roads without looking, and turning corners without looking, weaving an elaborate spiderweb path between the terraced houses. I’m like her clear, ectoplasmic spider thread, following a few steps behind.
After almost thirty minutes of walking, Polly kicks off her black high heels and stamps the rest of the way down Trinity Road, with just a thin layer of tight protecting her feet from the street. I feel bad – she’s going to wear holes in the soles, and they look good quality as well. I want to do something. I want to carry her heels for her, but she might feel embarrassed, walking along with a pair of floating stilettos.
A sickly thought strikes me: what if my death marked the moment Polly became utterly alone on the planet? What if Kimberly Clark was her last remaining human friend? After all, Polly never used to talk about her other lady friends – perhaps she didn’t have any. All she ever talked about were her latest conquests: a string of seedy lads she’d shag before being thrown back onto the slagheap.
After the ragged common, I follow her down to the river, where Wandsworth Bridge stands paddling, with its blue trouser legs rolled up. Polly narrowly avoids a speeding wing-mirror to the cranium before crossing over to the bridge. She completely ignores the beautiful view stretched out on either side of us: she misses the sky turning from eczema pink to contusion blue as the sun disappears; and she misses the lights of the city reflected millions of times over in the ripples of the Thames, like all the world’s Christmas decorations suspended in a fishtank.
Polly just glares at the paving slabs, in a trance. Just now, she reminds me of a slightly less-good-looking Catherine Deneuve in Repulsion: that black-and-white Polanski picture about growing gradually insane in the big city. I’ve seen countless people made sour by the Capital. I don’t think humans were ever meant to be alone, nor do I think they were ever meant to be packed into such a small space with tons of strangers. The Capital has that cruel knack of making you feel both pushed into and left out of society, like turning up late to a masquerade ball in your normal clothes.
About two-thirds of the way across Wandsworth Bridge, my Promiscuous Pal Polly from Southampton stops by the railing to have a long, hard stare into the water. The river seems to be flowing much slower than usual, as if it has the consistency of saliva, or gelatin. I grow anxious, praying she doesn’t hurl herself in. I don’t want to feel culpable for (and completely powerless against) another impromptu suicide.
Surely she’s not going to jump. Love might be the pièce de résistance in the otherwise mediocre marathon of life – however, one cupid stunt shouldn’t be enough to make you end it all.
Look at the evidence, though: she’s got no friends; she doesn’t feel safe in her own home; she’s not bothered about ruining her good-quality tights.
Silently, I stand shoulder to shoulder with Polly as the tide gently rubs against the banks of the Thames. Soon, Polly starts adding to the swell of water, throwing tears at it. She makes disgusting, private sounds: snortling, ‘uh-uh’ing, retching, whining, mumbling. Then, she swings her leg over the railing.
Panicking, I scan the bridge for police cars or good Samaritans, but everybody’s too busy trying to get somewhere to notice Polly going nowhere.
Her bottom lip wobbles while she straddles the bridge, as if she’s simultaneously talking herself into and out of jumping. She carries on sobbing, though her face looks strangely sane and composed, as she contemplates the crash of water. Or it could just be vacancy.
I scan the bridge again. Still no heroes.
I’ve got no choice but to step in, again. I don’t want a rusty railing to be the last thing my promiscuous pal gets her leg over – I want her to realise there are good men still out there; men who don’t break into your house, or nick your necklaces, or top themselves without saying a proper goodbye. Suicide’s a break from sadness, yes, but it’s also a break from potential mindblowing bliss.
My only obstacle is Polly’s deafness to the spirit world. Before she takes the plunge, I try to talk her out of jumping (‘!’) but her face remains unresponsive, eyes still fixed on the grey, building-blocked horizon. I consider levitating her to safety, but her body’s surprisingly heavy for someone who claims to be a size 10. I’m thinking about cutting my losses and sloping off before I witness anything too heartbreaking, when I remember the Grim Reaper’s advice:
If in doubt: howl.
Taking inspiration from the growling wind, I summon up every last drop of my ectoplasmic energy reserves, and throw my voice right into Polly’s right ear. Her hammer and anvil barely twitch, but something causes all the hairs in her cochlea to suddenly stand on end.
‘Polly, it’s me! It’s me! Please don’t jump!’ I scream.
When she hears my words, Polly’s face whitens and tightens – and she jumps anyway. Or, rather, she slips.
Polly seems to fall for an aeon, shedding her fur coat like some sort of regressive beast, before landing in the froth below. She screams, with her arms flailing, choking for her life. By the look in her eyes, she wasn’t expecting to hear my voice just then. By the look in her eyes, she wasn’t intending to commit suicide, either.
I dive in after her.
I can’t believe what I’ve done.
‘HELP! HELP! PLEASE!’ Polly screams at the sky, scrabbling in the high tide.
Once I’m in the water, I can’t see much hope for her. Not only can Polly not swim, ghosts make terrible li
feguards. As soon as I hit the river, my spirit dissolves, mixing in with the thick, foaming fizz. I try to call out to her again, but that just makes it worse. Polly gurgles blank breaths, in shock, taking on board far too much water. Soon, she’s stiff and bloated, bobbing along on her self-made waves. I lose my spirit completely. Perhaps if I’d thrown down a lifebelt instead of jumping in after her, she might’ve survived. Perhaps if I’d worn her off-white mattress-cover before coming up and harassing her, she might’ve known who I was.
THE END
Part 3) Kimberly’s Second Coming
Some people grind their teeth in their sleep, but it’s not every day you wake up to find your bottom jaw lodged in your brain. I roll over, making my spine clunk. The traffic on Shepherd’s Bush Green looks the same as it did when we fell over in front of it, only now all the cars are static and silent, with their drivers scuttling out to look at the dead bodies smashed on the asphalt. Living people are strange – given the chance, they love gawping at the dead.
As I roll over, more and more unfamiliar faces come rushing over to stare at me, like I’m some sort of rubbish circus act. Unfortunately for the spectators, I’m not actually dead. Kimberley, however, has her audience absolutely captivated round the front of the Fiat Punto, contorting her limbs into impossible positions and showing off her brains.
Once I get the feeling back in my joints, I lever myself onto my haunches and yank my jaw back into place. I shake a bit of life into my left foot, then I stand up, using the Punto’s crushed bonnet for balance.
I feel like a rhino’s been tap dancing on my chest. In the reflections of the car windows, my body looks unscathed, though my clothes are in tatters. Despite everything, I feel well enough to head back towards the Subterranean station, but as soon as I remount the pavement the spectators swamp me. Some pat me and laugh in disbelief, like I’m a modern-day messiah; others keep asking me if I’m alright, or if I’m immortal.
‘Yeah, not bad,’ I reply, hating the attention. All I want is to regather my limbs and thoughts and make a hasty retreat from the Capital, while all the onlookers want is for me to stay put.
‘You might have concussion,’ one of them suggests.
‘Does anyone here know the recovery position?’ another asks.
‘Naw, naw, you’re alright,’ I say. ‘I’m recovered. Honestly.’
I’m aware how absurd the spectacle must seem to them. Soon, all the folk ‘urgh’ing and ‘argh’ing over Kimberley come rushing over to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over me instead. Half the crowd pool together their scanty first-aid knowledge, offering me tissues and bandages and ambulances, while the other half stand in transcendental paralysis, suddenly believing in miracles, God, and the quality of Ford Mondeo brakes, not to mention the unbumpiness of their bumpers. Across the road, bystanders take photos of me with their camera-phones, squinting at the buttons, while the odd newcomer stands for five seconds, glares, then toddles off back to their errands.
The drivers of the Punto and Mondeo look inconsolably shocked and sheepish. To avoid incriminating themselves, they fail to say ‘sorry’ to me, though I don’t blame them for the carnage. Kimberley had a death wish, and it came true.
I glance behind the pulverised Punto and grimace. Kimberley’s isn’t the prettiest corpse I’ve ever seen. Where her face has caved in, you can see her old mercury fillings dancing in the sun. Poor, poor Kimberley. She might’ve been horrible to me in the past, but it’s strange how your feelings change about somebody when, all of a sudden, they’re gone. A bit like my dad, who had hundreds of disgraceful jokes about Princess Di, but still cried buckets at her televised funeral.
Then again, it softens the blow slightly, knowing Kimberley’s safe and sound in Heaven. In fact, I’m a little bit jealous of her – no doubt she’s having a blast up there, while I have to go through the mind-numbing mundanity of mortality all over again. I decide there’s no point trying to resuscitate her. Instead, I borrow a camera-phone off one of my followers, and tap in 999. While I wait for the call to connect, I watch more toy planes drifting through the sky, leaving behind their toothpaste trails. I rub the whiplash out of my neck and chew my bottom lip. Against all the odds, I might still get to Japan before sundown.
Five or ten minutes later, the Necropolitan Police turn up. Or, at least, you can hear their sirens in the distance, but it takes the van another five or ten minutes to squeeze through the traffic piled for miles up Uxbridge Road.
I brush a strand of Guillotine behind my left ear, watching the two officers striding towards the disaster spot. One of them has lots of muscles and a shaved, oblong head, while the other sports a moustache usually found on French folk or homosexuals. The meaty, muscly policeman barges through the diminishing crowd of disciples, while the fruity, mustachioed one weaves in and out with the air and grace of a bow-legged ballerina.
‘Clear away! Clear away!’ PC Meaty commands. The crowd shrinks back, leaving just me, the Punto, the Mondeo, PC Fruity and Kimberley’s corpse.
‘What’s happened, exactly?’ PC Fruity asks in a breathy tone.
‘There was this accident,’ I explain, putting emphasis on the word ‘accident’. ‘I mean, this girl Kimberley’ – I point to the bit that looks most like her – ‘she ran out into the road. And I tried to stop her, but, but we both got hit. And, er, what happened was … well, I … I’m alright, I suppose …’
I feel like I’m in school again. PC Fruity scratches his moustache, and glances at his colleague, who shrugs. PC Meaty takes a step back, and fiddles with his walkie-talkie, but I’m too busy dreaming of kimonos to catch what he says into it. Once he’s finished muttering in code, he gives Fruity a special nod, then they both pounce on me, corkscrewing my arms behind my back.
‘What are you doing?!’ I yell.
‘You’re under arrest,’ PC Meaty states, snapping on a pair of handcuffs. ‘Youhavetherighttoremainsilentbutitmayharm
yourdefenceifyoudonotmentionwhenquestionedsomethingyoulaterrelyonincourt
Anythingyoudsaymaybegiveninevidence. Now get in the van.’
As they manhandle me roughly into the back of the vehicle, I glance towards my disciples, although it seems they’ve all but disappeared, toddling off discreetly, back into the safe recesses of the city.
‘What have I done? I haven’t … done anything!’ I squeal, in tears now. Over in the Fiat Punto, the old, haggard-looking driver plays dead, avoiding eye contact.
‘What are you doing?!’ I scream again, as the van door slams behind me.
The policemen say nothing. Police officers must go through strict, rigorous training to master the art of voluntary deafness. If the police think you’re wrong, mad, drunk, or all three, there’s nothing you can say or do to change their minds. They’re power-mad, professional lawbreakers. I slump down on the Naughty Bench in the back of the van, feeling guilty for nothing, scooping my chin into my hands.
In the front, the two coppers hop onto their luxury leather seats, then the van vibrates, before speeding swiftly away from Shepherd’s Bush Green. I appear to be in some sort of cage. There aren’t any seatbelts in the back, so I have to break the law as we race through the Capital, tossing this way and that at every red light and every sharp corner.
‘What have I done?’ I whinge, feeling more like the K in that book by Kafka than the K in this one.
The policemen keep quiet, though, watching the road being sucked under the van at seventy-two miles an hour (also against the law). Now and then, they stick the siren on, to both frighten the traffic and drown out my whining.
I grab my knees to stop myself shaking so much. I wish I was still dead – it seemed quite civilised in Limbo, playing Subbuteo with a cocktail-quaffing Grim Reaper.
As we zoom gloomily through Shepherd’s Bush, I try to calm my breathing, and evaluate the situation. There’s always a chance the police are just looking after me, what with the slight similarity between myself and our Lord, Jesus Christ, in the resurrection stakes at least
. It doesn’t really explain the cage and the handcuffs, though.
We stop sharply outside Shepherd’s Bush police station – this large white box with white windows, on stilts. I go from one white box into another.
‘Seriously, what have I done?’ I whine again as I’m pulled out of the back of the van. The policemen drag me along the pavement, Chinese burning my biceps. For the sake of it, I try to wrestle my way out of the handcuffs, but that only makes the blighters tighter.
Inside, the police station’s typically drab and unwelcoming, with chipped sixties décor and poster upon poster of sad faces. Another sad face lurks behind the reception desk, supping a mug of tea. The two bobbies lead me past a door marked LAVATORY, down a sweat-scented blue corridor, to a row of holding cells. I dig my heels into the lino, protesting, ‘Please! Why am I here? Can you tell me what’s going on?!’
When we get to the end of the corridor, PC Meaty finally breaks his vow of silence:
‘The Court’s issued a warrant for your arrest,’ he states, unlocking CELL 6, ‘on suspicion of murder.’
There’s nothing like being thrown into a police cell to inspire a bout of loathing and self-pity. It’s only when they accuse me of being a murderer that I start acting a bit like one. I go at them with my teeth, crying my eyes out, pleading innocence and ignorance and screeching injustice. Maybe if I hadn’t lost my temper we might’ve been able to talk it over there and then but, instead, they toss me into CELL 6 to ‘calm down’. In defiance of the professional lawbreakers, I decide not to ‘calm down’ – instead, I scream bloody murder at the top of my voice for about twenty minutes, like it’ll get me anywhere.
The cell’s exactly how you’d imagine it, with a crummy school gym mat for a bed, a manky toilet which burps every half an hour, a heavy iron door with a dinner-hatch or cat-flap towards the top, and a CCTV camera watching me, like a mechanical hawk, from one of the ceiling corners. I spend the rest of the day scowling at the camera, once the screaming and tears get too much even for me.
Kimberly's Capital Punishment Page 33
