Kimberly's Capital Punishment

by Richard Milward

  ‘It’ll all be alright,’ Martin shouts after me, but he can’t mean it.

  In the lead-up to my execution, I’m transferred to a different cell in the Ladies’ Jail – a larger affair, with a cleaner mattress and the faint tang of chlorine in the air. I spend my days in an inert state of disbelief – there aren’t many tears, once the initial devastation’s over. I do feel terrible, though, not being able to say goodbye to the lovely shard of light, and the world outside. There doesn’t seem much point befriending the new toilet, or the freshly painted table, or the lonely shard of light that visits me now.

  To keep myself occupied, I spend each night rolling this way and that on the single mattress, sopping with sweat. In the daytimes I rock back and forth, silently contemplating my second death in six weeks. As if to compensate for the oncoming ordeal, they’ve put me up in relative luxury. They offer me one last meal of my choice (‘How about death roe and chips?’ they quip, the bastards), and a prison chaplain pays me a visit to see if I fancy signing up to Christianity, in a last-ditch attempt to get me into Heaven.

  I can hardly stomach the double-decker tuna and cucumber sandwich. It comes served on a clean plate, with extra mayonnaise, as requested, but the knot in my belly won’t accept it. After an hour or so, the chaplain gives me a knock, smiling at me in that half-compassionate, half-disturbed manner he has. I don’t smile back. I don’t see any use in being nice any more – there’s nothing to gain from it now.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ the chaplain asks me, in his soft, husky lilt.

  ‘Dunno, really. You know I’m innocent?’ I say. The chaplain avoids my gaze. He smooths a crease out of his black chinos, waiting for me to carry on. I say, ‘Will I see the Grim Reaper again, do you reckon?’

  ‘The Grim Reaper?’ the chaplain spurts, halfway through the smoothing.

  ‘Yeah. He was drunk, you know. Do you reckon I could sue him?’ I babble. ‘He got the wrong Kimberley, you see, so he … he let the Grim Reader decide my fate. Do you know what I’m on about?’

  The chaplain squirms, creasing his trousers again. He scratches the back of his neck, underneath his dog collar, and says, ‘I … er … this might not be my prerogative, but … have you considered an appeal? Are you feeling in stable mind?’

  I scoff, ‘Aw, yeah. Naw. Don’t worry, I’m not mad. I’ll … he’ll be there. Naw, forget anything I said. Next question.’

  The chaplain still doesn’t know where to look. Clutching at straws, he offers me some religious verse, with his eyes fixed to the ceiling: ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me …’

  ‘He’s not in the valley of the shadow of the thing, though,’ I interrupt. ‘He lives in Holland Park. With Bernard.’

  I consider bringing up the Subbuteo, but I don’t want to ruin his precious belief system. I can tell I’m doing his head in. I clap my heels up and down on the concrete, unsure what to say next. At a loss, the chaplain rises slowly from his seat and edges towards the door.

  ‘Right, well, Kimberly, I’ll leave you in peace,’ he says. Before he edges all the way out of the cell, he takes a biro and a pad of plain A4 paper from his satchel, and places it on my desk.

  ‘In case you’d like to write a final statement,’ he explains. Then, with a sharp clunk of the cell door, he disappears.

  I feel bad about fazing him. He could have a point – I might have a good case, to plead insanity and appeal for a less harsh sentence. My mental state hasn’t been in good shape since Stevie’s suicide, let alone since I suffered that bump on the head on Shepherd’s Bush Green. Then again, the folk in the courtroom seemed even more deranged than me. Especially those mad cunts in the jury.

  My second coming has been a complete disaster. For the sake of it, I grab the biro and scrawl CAN SOMEBODY PLEASE FEED LUCIFER? as my final statement. I laugh into my knee-caps, listening to the 1,041 bricks playing ping-pong with my giggles, before absorbing them into their white, dusty emulsion, for ever and ever, amen.

  They come for me at 13.00 hours. The last portion of my life is spent trembling on a bare mattress, dreading the arrival of Officer Meaty and Officer Fruity. I wish I could just disappear into thin air, painlessly, or happen upon an escape route under the thick concrete. I claw at it, but nothing gives.

  Strangely, when the knock comes, the nerves are replaced with numb acceptance. As it turns out, when you’re faced with capital punishment, your body adapts itself – however grudgingly – to the forthcoming slaughter. A sense of dismal detachment enables you to stand without buckling, or fainting, or screaming. You have to accept your lot. After all, we’re each of us condemned to death the moment we’re born – at least with capital punishment you’re given the chance to brace yourself, rather than being suddenly surprised by an unexpected knife, cancer, or speeding Ford Mondeo.

  To add to the theatrical atmosphere, Officers Meaty and Fruity are wearing black executioners’ masks. Following closely behind is another black, hooded figure, carrying a scythe and a half-empty glass of white, creamy liquid. I give him a nod, but I don’t want to talk.

  At least one helpful thing about my execution is I’ll finally find out what ‘disgraceful atrocity’ I’m supposed to be guilty of. As Executioners Meaty and Fruity march me down the chlorine-scented corridor, I’m half expecting to face hanging, or another car crash – I’ve got an inkling the judge and daft-cunt jury think it was Stevie or Kimberley I’ve knocked off. But, fair Reader, you of all people know I’m not to blame!

  Bizarrely, at the end of the corridor there’s a door marked KIMBERLY’S CAPITAL PUNISHMENT, which leads to an Olympic-sized swimming pool. As the door creaks open, the faint whiff of chlorine becomes a sinus-ripping stench. The place is like any normal swimming baths except, instead of the pool being enclosed in a greenhouse, with frosted, perv-proof glass, it’s surrounded by 30ft-high brick walls, and there’s no roof. I stare up at the beautiful rectangle of blue sky, with occasional birds and planes passing through it, embroidering it with cloudy thread.

  ‘Change round here,’ Executioner Fruity commands, showing me behind a curtain-on-wheels. He glares at me while I swap my unflattering jail clothes for an unflattering grey swimming costume. I take my time pulling it over my body, savouring every last drop of crap existence. It doesn’t bother me, being naked in front of the fruit – it seems, when you’re about to be executed, certain useless emotions like embarrassment, resentment and jealousy fade from the brain. Plus, he’s homosexual.

  Once I’m in the swimming costume, Executioner Fruity pulls me back out from behind the curtain. Meaty looks me up and down and asks, ‘Can you tread water?’

  ‘Probably,’ I say, in case it’s a trick question.

  ‘Get in the pool,’ the meathead booms next, peeling back the huge tarpaulin covering the water.

  I do as I’m told. I’m almost expecting to find sharks or piranhas lurking underneath the clingfilm covers but, as it turns out, it’s just ordinary, shimmering water. It seems they want me to drown to death. As I lower myself into the cool pool, I wonder if this has anything to do with the Black Monk of Guisborough. It wasn’t me who danced on his grave, though, and I definitely didn’t force Stevie to. If anyone’s to blame for that mishap, it’s the manufacturers of Pulse cider – or the person who built the anti-dancing fence too low.

  Enjoying the soothing weightlessness, I swim out into the centre of the pool and tread water. Executioners Meaty and Fruity watch me closely, through their black, beaky masks, with their arms crossed. Behind them, the Grim Reaper rests his scythe up against the curtain-on-wheels, and takes a long, loud swig of his White Russian.

  While I’m not the world’s best swimmer, it’s easy enough treading water. It’s almost pleasurable – every kick and splash creates these lovely zebra-like stripes of light in the water and, all things considered, it’s as nice a day as any to die. I spin onto my back, marvelling at the en
dless blue sky above, while I wait for something to happen.

  After five minutes or so, the executioners begin to look impatient. They exchange a few grunts and compare watches, shuffling uneasily on the tiles. I let a slight smile twitch my lips. Maybe I’m not going to die after all! Maybe I’ve outwitted them! The judge and jury were all too ready to send me to my death; they’ve overlooked the fact I’m actually innocent!

  All I’m guilty of is having slightly up-turned, cat-like, ‘evil’ eyes!

  Over on the poolside, the executioners are looking more and more agitated. They keep scratching themselves and cursing under their breath, completely stumped. I bite my lip. Still treading water, I’m already thinking about getting home, or getting to Japan, or getting swimming membership. I bob on the soft tide, unfazed by the black thunderhead slowly creeping across the azure blue rectangle, like a silent, overweight assassin.

  All of a sudden, my thoughts are interrupted by a loud popping sound, way above me. Instead of a lightning bolt, a huge bent javelin fires out of the thunderhead, trained directly on my forehead. Birds scatter as it whooshes through the blue. Before I can get out of the way, the rusty spike pierces my right eyeball, tunnels swiftly through my skull and skewers my brain, making a slushy sound. I shriek silently, conscious for a few seconds of the spike sliding into my face. Flapping my arms, I manage to grab the javelin-grip, but it’s stuck fast.

  As I wrestle with it, I notice a message attached to the weapon with fishing-wire. Typed onto the laminated card, I read through my good eye: SLIPPERY TWAT. I cough bloody bubbles in disbelief, lungs bloated with chlorine. I carry on flapping my arms and legs for another ten seconds before I roll over and honk my last breath, like a helpless little seal pup off the coast of Seal Sands.

  And then, everything turns black again. And, this time, it stays black.

  THE END

  Part 3) The Illustrious Shaun and Sean in … ‘All the Fun of the Funeral’*

  * To read this section, please remove your eyeballs. Place your left eyeball on the heading SHAUN, your right eyeball on the heading SEAN, and let them roll down the page simultaneously. One-eyed readers can go to page 413.

  Part 3a) A Gravestone in a Graveyard

  Part 3b) The Trouble with Maggots

  Just when you think things can’t get any messier, there’s a crack of silver lightning in the MDF sky, and it starts raining soil! We’re just minding our own business, finishing our dinners, when the disaster strikes. It’s not the usual bogstandard fare this week: we’ve been blessed with a juicy size-12 steak, marinated in malty alcohol, like a lump of the finest Kobe beef. I’m chomping enthusiastically on Kimberly’s rump when the initial bump of thunder catapults me into the small of her back. Like male humans, maggots love a nice bit of thigh, breast, and buttock. Young Kimberly’s bottom is particularly delicious – perfectly tenderised, after receiving many playful slaps in its lifetime. I glance worriedly at the sparking night sky which, tonight, is a dark pine colour, with whorly constellations and small, splintered stars. Beneath the sky, there are hills of red cloth. I’ve often fantasised about flying into that sky, once I get my wings – apparently there are delicacies out there called dogturds: luxurious brown meringues, readily available from any park or pavement. I writhe about, cuddling up to my neighbours. It’s freezing down here. Underground, you don’t get changing seasons – it’s a bit like Greenland in winter, I expect: it’s always pitch dark. Surely, over those faux-velvet mountains, there must be sunlight, and a better life. Rumour has it the sun makes dead bodies and perishable foodstuffs decompose twice as quickly! A shard of lightning opens the sky again, like the end of a steel spade digging through wood. I retreat up Kimberly’s lovehandles, where my mates are still gnawing away, oblivious to the storm. Beneath the surface of her skin, you can see where Kimberly’s good bacteria’s turned to bad bacteria, feeding on her like microscopic, legless rats. I think humans would be surprised what goes on inside a coffin – they’re not worth the expense, to be honest with you. You might as well just chuck your dead bodies onto landfill. Humans imagine coffins to be these armour-plated, airtight time capsules, protected by force fields, but what they don’t realise is decay starts from within. You’ve already got all the bacteria you need to wither and rot, surfing in your belly. Likewise, people reckon embalming is like casting your loved one in solid bronze but, in fact, it only holds off decomposition for a few days. It’s more like covering up the mould between the tiles in your bathroom with a thin layer of Polyfilla, rather than scraping it off, blasting with bleach, and regrouting. Then again, I’m not sure why humans hold such a grudge against maggots. Humans have no problem killing animals and eating them, but somehow they hate the idea of being eaten themselves. It’s not like maggots go around with shotguns or garrottes, picking off helpless humans, with napkins tucked into their tuxedos. We just wait patiently for Mother Nature to serve us a tasty, pickled treat. All over Kimberly’s steak, my maggot friends hover around her mouth, eyes, ears, nose, vagina and anus, like diners sensibly queueing to get into a fancy restaurant. At first, morte-cuisine is divine – all that fresh flesh, fat and sinew. But, after a couple of days or so, there’s pretty much only egg on the menu. Me and the maggots multiply just as fast as the bad bacteria; hatching here, there and everywhere before our eventual, beautiful, butterfly-like metamorphosis into flies. Then, we buzz off without paying the bill! Oh, how we love the smell of putrescine in the morning. I scrabble along Kimberly’s exposed hipbone, beating a beetle to a morsel of fatty lovehandle. There’s no particular hierarchy in parasite society, although the bad bacteria do seem superior, what with their shape-shifting skills, sparkling nuclei and ability to live on the tiniest scraps of sewage. Maggots, on the other hand, are more like the salt-of-the-earth proletariat: mining the body of its fat, earning cheap thrills off tits and arse, then becoming very fat themselves while dreaming of flying off to a better life. People think vultures, lions and piranhas are at the top of the food chain – they’re not. It’s the bad bacteria who’ll get you in the end. Up above us, the lightning rips another black hole in the sky, causing more muddy comets to drop into the coffin. As the storm carries on, the shards of electricity look more and more like actual spades, smashing through the lid of the casket. An earthquake rocks the red mountains. A huge Fila Classic kicks another piece of sky off. And with that, the coffin’s suddenly in disarray, with beetles, bugs and maggots flying everywhere – even the ones that haven’t turned into blue-bottles yet. In a fit of desperation, we burrow into Kimberly’s abdomen, down down down into the safety of her small intestine. Meanwhile, there seem to be voices coming from the hole in the MDF sky. I can just make out a male voice shrieking, ‘Fuck, it stinks!’ Then, a deeper voice: ‘Shut up! Howay. Help get it out.’ Me and my pals huddle together as another earthquake shakes us into Kimberly’s colon. Our whole world gets turned upside down as the coffin is wrenched out of the grave. The deeper male voice grunts, ‘Get the lid off. Quick.’ The casket experiences aftershock after aftershock as the MDF sky disappears completely and is replaced by the real-life night sky, miles and miles above our heads. I take a peek out of Kimberly’s burst appendix. The real sky looks wonderful, with its own whorly cloud formations and woodworm stars. I’m marvelling over the moon – that giant, indigestible eyeball – when, suddenly, the whole sky is blotted out by a gruesome, two-headed monster. I scramble back into Kimberly’s small intestine. ‘Fuck,’ one of the heads whimpers. I wonder what the monster wants. Perhaps it’s an old-fashioned bodysnatcher, or a thrifty fisherman looking to save a few bob on bait. ‘Fucking grow up,’ the deeper voice snaps. One of the heads keeps crying, while the other looks cross but concentrated, squinting into the coffin. ‘I’m gonna be sick,’ the crying head gurgles, turning round to be as good as its word on the grass. ‘Sshhh!’ the other head spits, reaching into the grave with carrier bags on its hands. Poking my head out of a different wormhole, I listen to the crying head whine between retches, ‘We s
houldn’t be here.’ The other head scoffs, and scolds, ‘You fucking baby. Howay, it’ll only take a second.’ And with that, he plunges his bagged hands all the way into the coffin, to rummage through Kimberly’s rotten human pâté. At first, it’s hard to tell what he’s looking for. I hope he’s not going to steal the steak – I’ve become quite attached to Kimberly. ‘Fuck,’ the head mutters, struggling. Even the cross, bossy head can’t help re-re-retching as he scoops through the maggots and muddy entrails in the bottom of the casket. After a minute or so of breast-stroke, he strikes gold. He finds approximately £35 in notes and loose change, submerged in the quagmire. As he gathers up the last few coins from Kimberly’s skeleton, there’s a flurry of polythene above my head, and I accidentally get swept up in one of the carrier bags. I try to wriggle free, but I’m stuck fast to the plastic. ‘Argh, shit!’ the head squawks, spotting me. He flaps his left hand, like he’s furiously waving goodbye to Kimberly. Kimberly doesn’t wave back. I’m thrown across the grass, crashlanding behind a grey, weather-beaten gravestone five yards away. Blind with fear, I scrabble back in the direction of Kimberly’s putrid perfume, but it’s too late. The two-headed monster hastily shovels a mound of soil back on top of her coffin, stamps on it, then stomps off towards the gnarled cemetery gates in silence. I feel like a fat person from America seeing their local Krispy Kreme outlet closed down before their very eyes. As the two-headed monster fades to a mere two-headed speck in the far corner of the graveyard, I wriggle around in circles, at a complete loss. If only I was a real worm, I’d be able to dig back down to Kimberly’s coffin. I feel famished already. Up above me, a few early birds dart through the dawn, cackling. I lie prone in the soil, imagining all the happy maggots sucking the succulent steak beneath me. Soon, they’ll be having flying lessons. I glance sadly about the graveyard. There’s no sign of life or death in any direction – just headstones, and those spindly, sinister trees that enjoy living in cemeteries. After a bit more crawling, I find a few mouldy berries under one of the trees, which tide me over until sunrise. I spend the rest of the next day with indigestion. Curled beneath a rusty leaf, I watch the odd wedding and funeral pass through the churchyard. All sorts of weeping wives and weeping widows slink by the weeping willows, far too wrapped up in their own glee and misery to think to throw me a cocktail sausage or spare animal carcass. By 4 p.m. I’m seriously considering climbing up a bridesmaid’s dress, but there’s probably no trace of dead skin up there either, after she’s been exfoliating all bloody morning. I head back to the trees. If only I was a bit fatter, I might be able to force metamorphosis. As it stands, I might not make it through the night. Feeling weak, I watch the church’s new gravedigger readying the plots for tomorrow morning. As the sky presses the sun against the horizon, he hums a Celtic ditty, levering up the turf like a fluffy green sardine can being opened. He looks like a scruffy beggar, with odd shoes and scars scribbled across his face. I wonder if he’s on the verge of death himself. I wonder what his liver tastes like. An hour later, the gravedigger’s finished his graft, without any handy acts of God or unexpected violence claiming his life. I think of all the selfish bastards having strokes and heart attacks in the privacy of their own homes. I think of all the wasted flesh. Come midnight, I’ve shrunk to the size of a fingernail clipping. I’m considering autocannibalism, when the sound of crackling foliage and footsteps gives me a start. I take my tail out of my mouth, and dart under the rusty leaves again. I pray up to the beautiful sky: please let it be a fat person from America, on the verge of a cardiac arrest! It’s difficult making out a clear silhouette in the dark, especially with my measly maggot-vision. I stick my nose to the wind, lying in wait, like a cross between a tiger and a grain of rice. However, my hopes are dashed when I see the gravedigger’s odd shoes again, crunching back through the foggy moonlight. I wonder what he wants this time. Maybe he’s come back to commit suicide for me, or perhaps it’s just time for work again. I feel sorry for the old fellow as he collects his spade from the tool shed – he’s only had a few hours’ respite between shifts. I watch the gravedigger panting heavily as he paces across the grass, carrying the spade in one hand, and a Tesco bag in the other. He must be delirious – or else it’s just sleep deprivation – because he heads straight for Kimberly’s grave and begins digging it up. Surely he’s aware there’s somebody trying to sleep down there. I creep out from under the leaf litter, looking forward to his reaction when he sees Kimberly’s half-eaten body. I might even be able to jump back into bed with her. Then again, all the choice cuts of steak have probably gone by now – plus, she might’ve exploded down there. Corpses love to explode – it’s their last blast of entertainment before surrendering themselves to the soil. The main reason corpses explode is they’ve lost the will to burp and fart. Above ground, people can be a bit sniffy towards other people who enjoy a good pump – however, farting is humans’ natural defence mechanism against exploding. When you die, you no longer have control of your sphincter muscles – hence, you’re unable to pump out all the excess methane the bad bacteria’s been excreting inside you. After a few days, the gases have built up to such an extent, your abdomen suddenly bursts open, like a disgusting Christmas cracker. However, instead of screaming when he sees Kimberly’s rotten body, the gravedigger carries on panting excitedly, hauling her coffin out of the black hole. He doesn’t even flinch at the smell. What’s he up to? I hope he realises somebody’s already robbed her riches. Prising off the remainder of the MDF lid/sky, the gravedigger unpeels Kimberly from her faux-velvet bed, yanking her under the armpits. He drags her along the grass and leans her against her own headstone. Kimberly spits out beetles as she slumps against the polished granite, staring lazily at one of the many twigs in her eyeline. I crawl round the front of the gravestone to inspect her meat. It’s disappointing. She’s hardly got an ounce of fat on her now: her breasts have withered to pancakes, and her buttocks are like burst bean-bags. Elsewhere, Kimberly’s midriff has been varnished with mould; her thighs have vanished completely; and her bones look like badly made papier mâché. Apart from that, the rest of her is more or less intact, although it’s the bland, lean areas such as chin skin, ankle and wrist skin, finger skin, nose skin. As expected, Kimberly’s hair and nails have carried on growing – she looks like a dog-eared ginger werewolf, with yellow claws and stubble growing on her tibias. A few maggots fall out of her kneecaps, joining me on the grass. They look nervous. Meanwhile, the gravedigger adjusts Kimberly’s position, making her sit up straighter against the headstone, with her legs crossed, ladylike. He sits down opposite her, on the grass, and removes a bottle of Babycham and a cracked bone-china teacup from his Tesco carrier. While a lot of men are attracted to bony superwaifs, it still comes as a shock when the gravedigger pours Kimberly a drink, and mumbles sweet nothings to her. ‘Angel … angel …’ he says, placing the trillium teacup and saucer between her legs. I can’t watch. I try to focus my attention on the same twig as Kimberly, while the gravedigger babbles at the corpse, like she’s an old friend. He takes long, frequent slurps from the Babycham bottle, stopping now and then to blow Kimberly the odd kiss. I’ll never understand people’s perversions. Occasionally, the old sod adjusts himself in his trousers, but I doubt he’s here for sexual gratification, with all that putrefaction. Instead, he just carries on slugging from the bottle, urging Kimberly to ‘Drink up … drink up … one for the road … one for old times …’ Kimberly doesn’t seem that thirsty, though. It’s like an awkward first date – the conversation’s somewhat one-sided. Me and Kimberly carry on staring at that twig, pretending to be elsewhere: Heaven, Nirvana, Valhalla, a halal butcher’s. I try to think about old offcuts of beef, run-over cats, wheelie-bins, compost, fuzzy sausages, crusty underpants, Best Before Ends, dogdirt – anything to keep my mind off the morbid goings-on next to us. I’m quickly running out of ideas, when a voice screams out from the cemetery gates, ‘What the fuck?!’ I recognise the voice. Peering round the headstone, I see one half of the two-headed
monster (the fat, tearful half) striding towards us with his hood up. He looks distraught. Likewise, the gravedigger panics, standing bolt upright and accidentally kicking over the Babycham bottle. Yellow fizz dribbles across the grass, mixing in with Kimberly’s own yellowy secretions. ‘What are you doing?!’ the hooded lad hisses. ‘I fuck death up the arse, me,’ the gravedigger protests, slurring his words. The lad isn’t impressed. For starters, you can hardly tell Kimberly’s arse from her elbow. The lad gags, with a face the same shade as the corpse. ‘You what?’ he gasps. The gravedigger clenches and unclenches his fists, and explains, ‘I just wanted one last night with her. One last drink. For old times.’ The lad shakes his head. ‘You’re fucking disgusting,’ he snaps, twitching with rage. The gravedigger spits on the ground, and slurs, ‘Fuck off. It’s alright. Fuck off. I know her. We were lovers. When it was alive. Fuck off.’ The lad shakes his head again. He takes another glance at Kimberly, and throws up in his mouth. ‘Ggggg …’ he growls, lost for words. ‘I fucked Kimberly up the arse, me,’ the gravedigger adds. ‘I fuck death up the arse. Just having a teacup with her. Fuck off.’ The lad’s legs begin to tremble. In a moment of madness (or is it sanity?), he pulls the upright spade out of the soil and lunges at the gravedigger with it. ‘Sick bastard!’ the lad howls. The gravedigger grunts, trying to block the swift hacks from the spade, but he’s too drunk to focus. The corner of the spade catches him on the skull, and his legs give way. He lands face-up in the grass, leaking red liquor. Kimberly can’t watch. The fat, hooded lad spasms, gasping for breath, still overcome with rage. He gives the gravedigger a few more hacks with the spade, until the grass turns burgundy. Then, the lad crosses himself. While the fifth commandment might say thou shalt not kill, one of the first rules of survival says thou shalt not trust a pissed-up thanatophile. Gasping for breath, the lad stiffens, realising what he’s done. He keeps his hood up and his head down as he hastily returns Kimberly to her grave. He decides not to touch the corpse, instead scoop-rolling her back into the black hole with the bloody spade. As he rolls her, he speaks softly to the dead girl. ‘Fuck,’ he says, between sniffs. ‘I’ve fucked up, I’ve fucked up. I came to give back the money. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I was going to leave Shaun. Shit. Here.’ He drops some coins and notes into the grave. The lad wipes his nose with his sleeve, then he whispers, ‘I love you.’ I give them a little privacy, creeping behind the headstone again. Although the lad says he loves her, you can tell in his eyes he probably doesn’t love her quite so much now he’s seen her like this. He might not even have known she was a natural ginger. The lad makes an almighty bark when Kimberly crashes in the bottom of her grave. By the sound of it, she breaks a few bones. I wriggle forward again, as the lad scoop-rolls the gravedigger into the same hole as Kimberly. It’s a handy piece of kit he’s got there. Not only can you kill someone with a spade, you can get rid of the evidence with it, too. And there’s no better place to murder someone than a cemetery. The fat lad might not be as daft as he looks – in fact, he’s my saviour. As the gravedigger’s fresh meat rolls past, I flick my tail and latch myself onto the necrophile’s neck. Yet again, it’s not the usual bogstandard fare: I’ve been blessed with a matured medium-sized steak, also marinated in malty alcohol, with a crispy cheese crust. I cling on for dear life as we’re chucked into the ground. The lad covers us up with soil, then his footsteps make a mad dash across the grass, away from all this. It shouldn’t take long for the gravedigger to decompose. I feel like royalty, having first dibs on his best bits: thighs, buttocks, gut, etc. First, though, I bury down through his belly-button, and into his stomach. It’s bad etiquette to chomp on the corpse’s flesh before you’ve even had a look at their last dinner. I hope he’s not a vegetarian. It was annoying last week, mistaking Kimberly’s semi-digested Quorn for minced beef. As it turns out, the gravedigger’s stomach contains the most wondrous, greasy banquet: floating in a pool of gastric fluid, there must be about three or four portions of cheeseburgers and chips, in varying stages of digestion. I soon get myself plumped up again – gorging on the rotting beef and starchy, sugary-sweet bread buns, while the rest of him becomes overrun with beasties. After three days of indulgence, I’m ready for a nice, long nap. Nestled in one of the gravedigger’s sideburns, I spin myself a cocoon, and wait for the change. My dreams all consist of one thing: luxurious brown meringues, readily available from any park or pavement. I can’t wait to suck on someone’s stool, dodge rolled-up newspapers and throw myself at windows. On the twelfth night of metamorphosis, I feel my wings twitching, gently cracking my brittle bedcovers. I blink my big bug-eyes at the brown sky, and sigh. Now all I need is another sick bastard to come and dig up Kimberly’s grave, and let me out of this wretched place.