How to Be Bad (15 page)

“You've been fucking my wife.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I bet your heart bleeds for me.”

“No,” said Bad Jesus, letting his hand fall to his side. “It doesn't bleed for anyone. But I care about marriage, all right? I was married once. My wife screwed another guy when my little boy was in the house, so I know how that feels. I know the pain you're feeling. So come on. Let's go for a spin.”

“What?”

“Have you ever been in a Porsche before? Let's just go for a ride. We can talk as we drive along. And you won't be needing this. Don't you know these things are dangerous?”

Jesus took the gun from my hand. Nearby was a dilapidated garden shed with broken windows. The shed had a hole in its base that rats used as their own private entrance. Jesus stooped low to shove the weapon through the hole.

“Okay, let's go,” he said.

“I'd better tell Caro.”

“She already knows.”

“What did she say?”

“She didn't believe me. She thinks I'm going to cut off your balls with piano wire.” Then he laughed.

*   *   *

C
ONSIDERING WHAT
the Porsche must have cost, it seemed mean and cramped inside, with only two small bucket seats. A fat bastard wouldn't have fitted in the car.

“So is this the part of the story where you drive me off to a warehouse and impale me on a butcher's hook?” I said.

“No,” said Jesus. “It's the moment when you catch the superstar criminal off guard, when he shows his more natural side to the camera. The warm, lovable side that until now you didn't know existed.”

“Tell me something,” I said. “When you saw me in Kew Gardens, did you recognize me?”

“Sure. You were the guy whose book I burned.”

“So that was just coincidence?”

“No. I made the bitch give me a list of all the scum that had ever fucked her. Fucking long list. Then I went round to humiliate you all.”

“Why bother?”

“Until tonight, I thought she was mine.” Jesus sighed. “I really fucking did.”

He turned on the engine, released the brake, and reversed into the path of a black cab. The cabbie, showing remarkable restraint, braked and waited. Then Jesus pressed down his foot and drove on, surging past the gardens. I could smell his pine-based cologne, heavy and sweet, redolent of first love and beauty and obscene wealth. The car was spotlessly clean. I suddenly found I was enjoying the surreal experience of being luxuriously chauffeured by a homicidal Christ look-alike.

“How's your heart feeling?” he asked me. Neither mocking nor remorseful, just interested.

“How do you think?” I said.

“Bad,” he said. He reached into the glove compartment and passed me a silver flask. “That's women, you see. Take a woman too seriously, won't be long before you find teethmarks on your dick. Have a drink, buddy. You look like you could use one.”

I opened the flask and sniffed it. It was cognac. I took a big swig and felt my insides light up. “So when I started shooting, how come you didn't shoot back?”

Jesus shrugged. “Violence doesn't thrill me as much as you might think. You see, Killer, there's a lot of theater in what I do. The men who follow me need to be scared of me, so I have to do frightening things. You can't be a successful criminal unless you inspire fear. It's a strange way to make a living.”

“Then why do it?”

“Boredom. I'm serious. Anything remotely normal bores the shit out of me.”

“Give me an example.”

“The moon,” he said.

We were following the Thames east, heading for the city. A big full moon accompanied us all the way, now skimming on the water, now vanishing only to be glimpsed moments later in the branches of a tree.

“You don't think it's beautiful?”

“A long time ago, maybe,” said Jesus. “But now I've seen it too many times. It always does the same things. I find the moon depressingly predictable.” He lit a cigarette from the dashboard. “I was a bright child. Have you heard of the Mary Swallow School for Gifted Children?”

“No.”

“No? Well, you're an ignorant slob. It's a famous school, and I won a scholarship to go there. But they kicked me out. They said I was ungovernable. That was their word for it.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Just trying to explain. I was hyperactive before people knew what the word meant. There's this restlessness in me that makes me smash things. Even when I don't want to.”

“Have you read an Edgar Allan Poe story called ‘The Imp of the Perverse'?” I said.

“Do I look like I've read an Edgar Allan Poe story called ‘The Imp of the Perverse'?”

“No. But then you don't look like a man who went to a school for gifted children.”

About fifty yards away, a male pedestrian in his twenties crossed the road in front of us, walking with exaggerated slowness to demonstrate how cool and unafraid he was. Jesus checked his mirror. There was nothing behind us.

To avoid a collision, Jesus needed to brake. Instead, he sped up and knocked the pedestrian over. The hood slammed into his legs and he flew sideways, bouncing across the road like a rubber ball. Jesus laughed but he didn't stop. I glanced back to see the pedestrian writhing in the gutter.

“You ran him down,” I pointed out helpfully.

“That's right,” said Jesus. “Did you see how he was swaggering, daring us to hit him? The pathetic little worm. He dared the wrong man, didn't he? Man, I love my life.” Then he laughed again, hard and loud.

“Maybe we better go back?”

“Yeah. He was still alive, wasn't he? Maybe we should go back and run over him again?” He tutted. “What kind of world do you think you're living in, Killer?”

“A bad one.”

“That's right. People don't like each other enough. I like my kid, but I can't say it goes any further, 'cause I never see him. I only truly love two people. My kid brother and myself. And I'd say I was fairly typical.”

“You think it's typical to run someone over and not stop?”

“Yeah. And don't try and tell me you've never done it.”

“Did you burn my shop down?”

“What?”

“I asked you a question. Someone set fire to my shop. Was it you?”

“No. Like I said, I did send some guys round to paste you. That's as far as I got.”

Victoria Embankment rushed by on our left. By Cleopatra's Needle, a real London bobby was giving directions to some tourists.

“Look. A child's view of London,” sneered Jesus. “All we need is a red London bus going by.”

Right on cue, a red London bus passed by.

Jesus laughed delightedly. “What did I tell you? Now we need Hugh Grant running up out of breath to tell Julia Roberts he loves her and wants to spend the rest of his life with her. You know what I'd like to see? A film where Hugh Grant runs up at the end and Julia Roberts throws acid in his face.”

“Uh, that doesn't sound very commercial,” I said.

“Well, I'd pay to see it,” said Jesus.

I took another swig of the brandy. Then an image of Caro being fucked by Jesus drifted into my mind. I covered my face and sighed like a Hampton Court ghost.

“Don't go on about the wife-fucking,” said Jesus. “I've already apologized about that.”

“Okay,” I said, speaking through my hand.

“And the reason why I was hostile to you, I don't like anyone going near the women I'm doing it with. It's just a rule I have. But if I'd known you were married, I wouldn't have fucked her. I'm a reasonable man.”

“What about the money you're charging Caro? She only borrowed twenty grand and you're asking for—what? One-thirty? What's reasonable about that?”

Bad Jesus sighed. “I'll cut the debt in half. Okay? Sixty-five thousand.”

“Thirty.”

“Eighty-five,” said Jesus.

I looked at him. “Now you're going higher. What are you going higher for?”

“Because, my friend, you tried to take advantage. Bad mistake. Never try to take advantage of a maniac who's doing you a favor.”

“I just don't think we can find sixty-five.”

“Yes, you can. And you pay me in full on Friday, understand?”

“I thought we were friends.”

“Are we fuck? Friends? Why are we friends? Because I gave you a ride in my car?”

“You're acting friendly.”

“Oh,
acting.
Sure, I'm great at acting. But I don't do friendship. Nothing against you, you could be the nicest guy in the world, it'd make no difference. I don't feel what other people feel. That's why I'm rich. So don't flatter yourself. You get on the wrong side of me, you'll soon find out how friendly I am.”

I must still have looked unhappy, because he added, “But look, if it makes you feel any better, C and me didn't fuck tonight. I couldn't face all those loud noises she makes. All she did was give me a hand job while I ate my dinner.”

At Victoria, Jesus parked his smart little car in a square and asked me to get out.

“Why?”

“Don't be so suspicious all the time. I want you to see something.”

We cut through an alley and walked past a burger restaurant and there was Victoria Cathedral in all its gloomy glory. The building was closing, and a steward at the door prepared to bar our way, but when he looked up at Jesus his mouth dropped open and he stepped to one side. “God be with you,” said Bad Jesus. Then he turned to me and grinned.

*   *   *

O
N THE
way home, Jesus was in such a good mood that he let me drive his car. Until now, I had always ridiculed Porsches because of the kind of people who own them. Yet the Son of God's car was a beautiful machine, and driving it felt like gliding through space.

Jesus wanted me to go to a drinking club in South London with him. I told him I needed to get back.

“Why?”

“Caro'll wonder where I am.”

“Here's my phone. Call her.”

“I've got my own phone.”

“Why are you in such a hurry to get back to a woman who's been fucking another man?”

“Well, given the choice, she wouldn't have done that.”

Bad Jesus was incredulous. “You honestly believe that? Let me tell you about me and women. I could walk into any bar and within ten minutes, three ordinary whores would walk up to me and beg me, literally
beg
me, to mistreat them. Do you doubt that?”

“No.”

“Women like to be told they're ugly. Once in a while, they like to be punched and kicked. They particularly like to crawl naked on their hands and knees before a dirty murderer who looks like Jesus Christ. Caroline is no different.”

I felt I was in no position to argue.

“And now you know what a liar she is,” said Jesus, “are you still eager to hurry home to her?”

I nodded. He blew out his breath despairingly as if he'd never heard anything so stupid. When we were passing through Barnes, a shiny four-wheel-drive overtook us. The guy in the front passenger seat leaned out of the window and swore at us. Then the car sped off, tearing crazily round the narrow bend and out of sight.

“See that?” said Jesus. “Standards are declining everywhere. How old would you say that guy was? Forty? Forty-five?”

“Yeah. About that.”

“He's probably somebody's father. Why was he shouting? Where's his dignity?”

“Dunno.”

“See his face? He was fat and soft. It's amazing how many weak, cowardly bastards act brave when they're behind the wheel of a car.”

“But he wasn't behind the wheel.”

“Yeah, okay, but you know what I mean. He felt safe in his metal box. Maybe he'd got that false sense of security that guys get after a few drinks. Also, perhaps he was irritated because this car's better than his, so he thinks he has the right to insult us. Or maybe he hasn't got a car. Maybe his friend who was driving is the only one with a car. I'm serious. We live in a very petty world.”

Jesus lit a cigarette from the dashboard. A little later, we passed the same car, parked on the pavement outside an off-license. Two well-scrubbed middle-class men were getting out, laughing and joking, big bellies bursting over their trouser belts.

“Stop the car,” said Jesus.

“Why?” I said, already doing what I was told. I mean, it was his car.

“I just want to talk to them.”

I pulled up, and Jesus got out and walked over to the two nice middle-class men. I followed him, afraid that the situation might be about to turn nasty.

“Excuse me? What did you shout at us just now?” said Jesus to the passenger. He had plump, shiny red cheeks. His friend, the driver, wore glasses and had sleek white hair with a boyish fringe. You could tell that neither of them had had to worry about money in his entire life.

“You were driving in the middle of the road,” declared the driver, in a self-satisfied, plummy voice. He had that kind of repulsive confidence that people get from living in a place like Barnes, earning too much money and eating like pigs.

“I didn't ask you,” said Jesus.

The driver huffed and puffed. His friend said, “Now, come on, it's hardly something to get heated about.”

“You called my friend here a bad word,” said Jesus.

“Did I? I really don't remember.”

“Are you saying you don't think he can drive? He's a martial arts expert. He could hurt you very badly.”

The passenger was trying to edge away. “Well, I dare say he could. But the fact remains, he was in the middle of the road.”

“He was keeping left, like all good motorists,” said Jesus.

“Well, that's your perspective,” said the passenger, with a tight little sneer. “It certainly isn't mine.”