Kimberly's Capital Punishment

by Richard Milward

  Ironically, they’ve taken away the laces from my Man Utd collar, as if I’d want to die twice in one day. In any case, by Stevie’s standards, I’d need at least four pairs to hang myself successfully.

  Along with the self-pity, there’s anger, indigestion and confusion. Just because I survived the car crash, it doesn’t mean it was my fault. I’m half expecting the Meaty/Fruity double act to swing open the cat-flap and tell me it’s all just a silly joke.

  Soon, the blubbing and self-hatred give way to a different sort of hatred, focused towards the policemen. I wonder if they’re watching my CCTV in a back room, slapping their thighs and cackling. At one point, PC Fruity pokes his nose through the dinner-hatch to offer me a glass of water, or a slice of pizza. Through gritted, chattering teeth I snap, ‘Yeah, go on, I’ll have artichoke, asparagus, olives, mushrooms, red peppers …’

  When I reach ‘red peppers’, the hatch slams shut. The giardiniera pizza never appears. I try to force sleep on the gym mat, but my brain’s racing too much. The longer they keep me in the cell, the less likely it seems this is all a practical joke. I wish I’d befriended millionaire businessmen now, instead of drunken bums, since I might need someone with some disposable income to bail me out. I might need a hero.

  At 7 a.m. the next morning, the heavy iron door creaks open. Instead of a knight in shining armour, it’s the same two policemen again, in their drab polyester uniforms, with sauce stains around their mouths. They reshackle my wrists, then lead me into a mess hall of sorts. As it turns out, the mess hall’s just a slightly larger version of my cell, with the same CCTV camera in one corner, a dinner-hatch, and a single table and plastic chair instead of a gym mat. Through the dinner-hatch, I catch glimpses of other coppers, gorging themselves on hot Full English breakfasts, with tea and all the trimmings.

  I slump down at the single table, in front of a bowl of dry oats. The copshop cooks haven’t even turned it into porridge for me. I attempt a few mouthfuls, but there’s not enough saliva in my cheeks to cement-mixer it into edibility. I sulk instead, sobbing over the bowl, but it still doesn’t turn into porridge.

  PC Meaty farts, filling the room with a rotten sausage smell.

  ‘Eat,’ he commands, watching over me with bulging, crossed arms.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I groan, pushing the bowl away. It’s a shock to hear my own voice again, after all that silent, debilitating deliberating last night. Despite having two bent bobbies to contend with, it seems, in jail, your main adversary is your own thoughts. Especially when you haven’t got a clue why you’ve ended up here, or how you’re going to get back out.

  After I’ve choked down a few more porridge oats, the policemen take me through to a different room, to interrogate me. The room looks exactly the same as the last one except, this time, there’s a large pane of one-way glass instead of a dinner-hatch and, instead of the oats, there’s a selection of gadgets laid out on the Formica table: Dictaphone, inkpad, pen, paper, camera, cotton buds.

  Before probing me with their questions, the policemen probe me with their gadgets. PC Meaty takes my fingerprints and swabs the inside of my cheek, while PC Fruity sets up the photo shoot. I straighten the Guillotine and give them my best, saddest pout.

  Next comes the questioning. I stare at them, boss-eyed, as they bombard me with riddles:

  ‘Where were you on the night of the thirtieth of May this year?’

  ‘How many sexual partners have you had in the last six months?’

  ‘Do you play sports?’

  ‘Has anyone ever told you, you look like the spawn of a necrophiliac?’

  ‘What presents did you receive on your birthday in 1989?’

  I sigh, and say, ‘Am I alright to remain silent?’

  The policemen give each other a look. Leaning forward, PC Meaty coughs in my face and announces, ‘You have the right to remain silent, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned—’

  ‘As in, now,’ PC Fruity adds, with a smarmy simper.

  ‘—something which you later rely on in court.’

  I launch my head into my hands, and whine, ‘Are you sure there’s not been some mistake?’

  ‘Take it up with the CPS,’ PC Meaty states. ‘They issued the warrant.’

  ‘Based on what?’ I say.

  ‘Take it up with the CPS.’

  I growl into my sleeve, leaving behind a wet imprint. I wish I had my laces, after all – it might be wise to excuse myself from the interrogation chamber, and quietly garrotte myself in CELL 6. Thanks to the CCTV, though, I’m constantly on suicide watch. I drop my chin onto the edge of the Formica, praying for the walls of the station to suddenly collapse, like a cheap, cardboard film set.

  ‘Shouldn’t I have a lawyer?’ I ask, wiping my nose.

  ‘It’s up to you. We can arrange for one, free of charge,’ says Fruity, with another smirk, ‘or you can sort one out yourself.’

  ‘You’ve got one phone call,’ PC Meaty adds generously.

  I scratch the back of my neck. I’ve got no idea who to phone, especially since I don’t have any next-of-kin or boyfriends any more. I wonder if they’ve got a copy of the Yellow Pages at the station – it might be worth ringing a locksmith, or a magician, or a bulldozing company, to get me out of this mess. It might even be worth phoning 999, in case these two aren’t bona fide policemen. For all I know, they could just be your run-of-the-mill, unprofessional lawbreakers. Sadist bastards in fancy dress.

  I pick at a dent in the table, desperately trying to remember all the characters I’ve come across who haven’t died or betrayed me yet: Lucifer the Hamster, my Promiscuous Pal Polly from Southampton, the Square-Faced Bachelor, the Triangle-Faced Bachelor, Mr Henry, Nina, Mr and Mrs Wallace …

  And then, winking at me on the back of a blinked eyelid, a face comes to me. I lift my head from the Formica, trying in vain to recollect a phone number I’ve never phoned before in my life. Timidly, I glance at the two coppers, and mumble, ‘Ehm … am I alright having two calls?’

  ‘What?’ PC Fruity spits.

  I flex my neck apologetically, and add, ‘Might need, ehm, directory enquiries first.’

  ‘Christ, let’s get fucking on with it, then,’ snaps PC Meaty.

  The next day, a new face peers in at me through the cat-flap. Martin Sawyer, the Wallace family lawyer, must’ve been practising his smile all the way down from Teesside – it’s an absolute beauty; the most comforting smile I’ve seen in ages.

  ‘Thank God you’re here,’ I say, even though my faith in God has faltered somewhat recently.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Martin asks, still smiling. PC Meaty allows him into my cell with a slight shove, asserting his authority, then he slams the iron door shut. Even though the cat-flap stays closed throughout our conversation, I’m sure I can hear breathing behind it.

  ‘Not great,’ I whisper, shuffling along the gym mat so Martin can sit down. ‘Have you got any idea why I’m here?’

  Martin picks at a bit of dry skin on his chin, and says, ‘I’ve had a look through the paperwork, but I’ve got to say it all seems a bit … wishy-washy.’

  Martin opens his faux-leather briefcase and pulls out a thick wodge of papers. The papers are tattooed front and back with minuscule black courier print. Slipping on a pair of reading glasses, Martin scans a bit of the text, cringes slightly, and says, ‘Now, I’m not sure if you’re aware or not, but it looks unlikely you’ll be granted bail.’

  I shake my head, and shiver. Martin’s making me feel uneasy, now the smile’s gone and he’s speaking all business-like. He carries on, ‘We’ll have it confirmed when we see a magistrate later today, but don’t get your hopes up. Because of the severity of the charge, the Court will probably order that you remain in custody. Just in case you try to abscond somewhere. Abroad. The Far East, for example.’

  Here Martin glances at me over his lenses. After studying my expression for a second or two, he turns back to his papers. ‘Now, you�
�ll be transferred to your local Ladies’ Jail maybe later today, or early tomorrow. Hopefully we’ll have the charge sheet with us soon but, as you’ve probably gathered, the police are being a bit, er, reticent about it all.’

  ‘Have you got any idea what I’m meant to have done?’ I ask, feeling dumb.

  ‘Murder,’ Martin states gravely.

  ‘Naw, naw, yeah, I know. But, I mean, who have I … who am I supposed to have killed? Do you know?’

  Martin turns to his papers again. Squinting, he skim-reads the odd passage, looks up at me apprehensively, then glances back down at the tiny print. Finally, he clears his throat, and answers, ‘Mm, I, erm … I don’t know.’

  I sigh into my fists. Martin lets out a nervous laugh, and shifts his weight on the gym mat. He explains, ‘Well, let me tell you what I do know. You see, I’m not sure if you’re aware or not, but it appears someone’s been spying on you.’

  I shudder again, thinking of all the possible eyeballs hiding behind the CCTV camera. I hike my knees up to my chest and restraighten the Guillotine self-consciously.

  ‘See, erm, are you aware you’re the subject of a book?’ Martin adds. ‘The leading lady, so to speak?’

  Now that I think about it, a lot of strange things have happened since I found myself in Limbo. It’s as if I’ve been allowed a peek behind the final curtain of an epic play, to see all the gubbins going on behind the scenes of reality. Like Dorothy collaring the scrawny Wizard behind all the smoke and mirrors, in the Emerald City.

  ‘Erm, sort of,’ I reply. ‘Like, I don’t know how much you know, but I’m aware there’s someone watching over me. The Reader, I mean.’

  I point in your general direction, but Martin only seems to see the ceiling when he follows my finger. His brow furrows, and he says, ‘Hmm. Well, are you aware there’s someone writing about you? Writing about you right now, as we speak?’

  I shake my head, bringing my knees even higher, up to my chin. The breathing behind the iron door seems to grow heavier, and I’m sure the lens of the camera twinkles.

  ‘Well, let’s put it this way,’ Martin goes on. ‘If you’re aware someone’s reading about you, it makes sense someone must’ve written something about you, doesn’t it?’

  I nod, peering shyly over my kneecaps.

  ‘Right, well here’s the thing,’ Martin continues. ‘The CPS has issued a warrant for your arrest, based on evidence found in a document called’ – here, Martin squints at his papers again – ‘er, Kimberly’s Capital Punishment. It’s a book about you – apparently written from your point of view.’

  I fiddle with my hands, confused.

  ‘Now, here comes the problem. The CPS appears to have taken this, er, document as factual evidence. But I’ve been through it myself, and I can’t make head nor tail of what’s true in it or not. There’s a lot of death in it, but I can’t see any evidence of cold-blooded murder.’

  This is all completely puzzling. I play with the Guillotine again and ask, ‘Someone’s been spying on me?’

  ‘Yes, well, spying on you – or just plain making up lies about you. It’s hard to tell, with these novel things. Does the, er …’ Martin rechecks his papers, ‘does the name Milward mean anything to you?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Apparently he’s been at it for a while. Watching people. Making up stories about people,’ Martin explains.

  ‘And he’s been writing things about me?’

  ‘Mm, yes. Don’t ask me why, but it seems he’s been using you as a puppet. A plaything. Or, rather, as a kind of voodoo doll, to take all his … grievances and insecurities out on. But I believe you’re innocent, Kimberly. I really do, love.’

  I smile halfheartedly. As I sit pondering the name Milward, a few cloudy, conflicting faces and memories hobble about the peripheries of my brainwaves. Images of dinner trays, apples, library books, itchy carpets, and broken dolls creep in and out of the butter-finger grips of my memory banks, before being suddenly illuminated by a single, devastating lightning bolt. Oh Lord. I think I know who this Milward character is. I think he used to be in my English class at secondary school.

  ‘Actually, I do know him,’ I grumble. ‘He used to sit behind me in English, I think. Are you on about, er … who’s it? Rrr … ichard?’

  ‘That’s the bugger.’

  I take my knees away from my face, and inhale deeply. I wonder if this whole confusing calamity is a side-effect of my second coming. Maybe I’ve been imprisoned, simply to honour the fate dished out to me by Mother Nature on Shepherd’s Bush Green. I am the Resurrection and the Life, and I am a Slight Nuisance to the Births, Marriages and Deaths indexes. And I need rubbing out.

  ‘So, what are we gonna do?’ I ask, shifting in my shallow bum imprint.

  ‘Well,’ Martin starts, taking off his glasses and cleaning them, ‘I’ll go through the novel again, this weekend, with a fine-toothed comb. You try and get some rest. I hope the Ladies’ Jail isn’t too awful. We’ll soon get you out though, love.’

  Before Martin leaves, we hug solidly and awkwardly. It worries me, the idea of him analysing my so-called memoirs – not because he might discover I’m guilty of murder (I’m not), but because I’ve been spending my time shagging homeless men through glory-holed shower curtains, being nasty to my ex-boyfriend/his ex-client, and constantly failing suicide. I hope I didn’t say or think anything rude or rotten about Martin Sawyer when I first met him, after Stevie’s funeral. I hope my subconscious was well-behaved.

  I hope Martin thinks I’m worth saving.

  As expected, the Court doesn’t grant me bail. Later that day, PCs Meaty and Fruity take me on another treacherous, rattling day-trip, to HMP Holloway, my local Ladies’ Jail. The prison’s a red-brick monstrosity with a drab castle wall wiggling around it. As it looms before us, I realise the prison’s within spitting distance of that pub, the Copenhagen, where I gave Shaun and Sean my inheritance from Stevie to piss up the wall. My heart feels sore as we drive through the high-security gates.

  After signing myself in at reception and undergoing a sickly, semi-erotic (on her side) encounter with a woman wearing plastic gloves, I’m shown to my cell. Inside the Ladies’ Jail, parades of dismal dykes and tomboys trudge up and down the flaky, emulsioned gangways, on their way to take cold showers or queue for the phone or scream into their pillows.

  Instead of a WELCOME mat, there’s a thick layer of birdshit outside my door. On the upside, my single remand cell’s slightly larger than the one at the station, and it even has a bedframe. On the downside, the mattress looks mouldy with yellow sorrow-stains, the chipped desk swears the previous inmates’ carved obscenities at you and my new manky toilet burps more often than the last one. Behind my new cat-flap, fearsome female voices grunt and chunter. The only real comfort comes from the lovely shard of light posting itself through a gap in my window. It’s only a tiny shard of light, since it’s only a tiny, grilled window, but it’s a reminder the wonderful, wide world is still out there, waiting for me.

  I hope it doesn’t have to wait long.

  After a few days in the Ladies’ Jail (days which include a lot of wall-staring, nail-biting, tantrums in the TV room, a suicide attempt in C Wing, and seventeen laps of the yard), I’m dragged into the Crown Court to confirm my name and enter my plea. Martin Sawyer’s not present amongst the wigs and the robes – he’s probably late. I do feel bad forcing him to yo-yo up and down from Teesside to the Capital every five minutes but, thankfully, the day’s legalities are fairly straightforward. I proclaim ‘Not guilty’ with a slight curl of the lips, marking my distaste for this twisted judicial system.

  The Ma’am, who seems to be in charge of the whole thing (she’s got the best wig), scribbles a few words, then tells my jailers to take me away. I slump out of Court 4 in my ill-fitting eighties power suit, donated by Martin Sawyer’s unfeasibly small wife. The dusky blue sleeves end halfway up my forearms and the waistband cuts into my stomach. Messrs Fruity and Meaty – now masq
uerading as prison officers in crisp white shirts, black chinos and black kicking-boots – handcuff me again and frogmarch me down the mock-oak corridor. As we pass the Gallery Entrance, I spot Martin Sawyer racing towards us from the reception area, with his briefcase and VISITOR badge flapping. He bounds two steps at a time up the Gothic staircase before reaching us and panting, ‘Kimberly, love, so sorry I’m late. Train was delayed at Darlo. You haven’t made your plea yet, have you?’

  ‘Er. Yeah,’ I reply, a bit wary. Visible pain pinches at Martin’s red cheeks – I hope it’s just exhaustion; lactic acid off the sprint up the staircase.

  Getting his breath back, Martin takes me aside for a moment, into one of the empty offices. He sits me down. Then, with cascading syllables, he explains, ‘I was looking over the papers again on the way down. You won’t believe this. I, er … I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Just say,’ I urge, resting my hands and steel bracelets on the desktop.

  ‘Right,’ Martin goes on, unable to look at me, ‘well, if I’m honest, I suspect foul play, but … there was a tea stain on one of the Court documents – not my fault, I might add. I thought nothing of it at first but, erm, just about legible under the stain, in tiny print, it says …’ Here Martin pulls the offending sheet from his briefcase, and continues, ‘Under the Court’s new, erm, legislation, the maximum punishment for murder, when the accused has pleaded not guilty is … is death.’

  The word death makes me convulse, like I want to cough up all my internal organs. Martin pats my hand and carries on. ‘See, I know you’re innocent, but pleading guilty would at least spare your life. Maximum punishment is life imprisonment, tops, if you, er, plead guilty. Maybe there’s still time to change your pl—’