The Late Hector Kipling (14 page)

‘And you’re showing your self-portrait?’ she says, a little bit excited.

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘And how’s Lenny getting along with the Prize? Not gone to his head, has it?’

‘No, Mum,’ I say, ‘it’s not gone to his head at all.’

‘Not long to go now, is it? When is it?’

‘It opens on the ninth. Couple of weeks.’

‘Not long to go, then.’

‘No, Mum, not long to go.’

‘Eee, I wish his dad was alive to see it. How’s his mum? Still in the home?’

‘Yes, Mum, still in the home.’

The traffic slows right down and I’m back into first, creeping along.

There’s a police car and three ambulances. Everyone’s got their heads craned to see. Up ahead there’s a green florist’s van upside down. Inside there’s a man – the florist, presumably – bleeding his mind all over the steering wheel and two delicate hands that won’t let go. There’s a gold and bloody ring on his finger, one of those Irish rings with two tiny hands holding a tiny crowned heart.

‘And how’s Kirk?’ says Mum.

I take a deep breath and look into the florist’s eyes. ‘Kirk’s not too good, Mum.’

‘Why, what’s the matter with him?’

His head’s all broken over the wheel and he’s looking out to the side. Right into my eyes. ‘He’s got a brain tumour,’ I say.

‘No, don’t say that, Hector.’

‘He has, Mum,’ I say, my voice getting a bit shaky, ‘he’s got a brain tumour.’

The florist’s eyes follow me as I creep past.

‘Oh my God! Little Kirk.’

‘I know, Mum, it’s horrible.’

‘Oh, Hector,’ says Mum, all gentle, ‘you sound all upset, love.’

‘I am, Mum, I am. I don’t know what to do,’ I say, pulling away from
the wreckage. ‘Listen, Mum, I’m gonna go, I’ve got to go, I don’t want to talk right now,’ and my voice trails off into a whisper.

‘Oh, Hector. Hector pet.’

I hang up.

It doesn’t seem right for a grown man to do a thing like that to his mother.

I can still see the bleeding florist in my wing mirror. Head like a sack of dog meat. ‘There’s a man,’ I think, moving up into third, ‘who’s sold his last flower.’

I put on the radio and there’s Fats Domino singing ‘Lulu’s Back In Town’. I whistle along.

BOX STREET, BOW, LONDON

Eleni’s been gone for three days now and we haven’t spoken. I’ve tried calling her but I have to call the hardware store in the village square cos Yiorgos’s taverna doesn’t have a phone. I’ve called six times but it’s either engaged or I can’t get a connection. I don’t know if Eleni’s tried to call me but there was a message on the answerphone last night that was just a lot of static, so that might have been her. I’d been out for a walk cos it’s strange to pass through all this room with her gone. The flat is so empty and the ceilings are so high. Sitting there in the dark, full moon outside, listening to all that static, it felt like sitting in the Mir space station, like a dead machine drifting through nothing.

I’ve just had four slices of toast and a jar of pickled beetroot with a small clod of horseradish on the side. And then I drank the juice from the beetroot. I haven’t had toast and beetroot for three years. Not since before Eleni. It’s still not bad.

Yesterday I stayed in all day and pulled the armchair up to the painting. I watched it for four hours, like I was watching a film. At one point I stood up and spent three minutes turning it round. Then I sat down, watched it for an hour and then spent four minutes turning it back, pausing for two minutes to see what it looked like on its side, in landscape.

But today I’m not gonna do that. I nearly did that. I did it for half an hour as I was scoffing my beetroot, but today I’m not gonna do that, because that sort of behaviour seems to suggest that I might have some sort of mental-health problem, and I don’t want that. God knows I don’t
want some sort of mental-health problem. Not on top of everything else.

So I’m up on the roof, smoking a fag, thinking about everything else and thinking about what, therefore, I should do today. I’ve brought up my phone and a can of beer. I swig the beer, smoke the fag and lie back in the deckchair looking out over the rooftops of Bow. It’s pissing down but that doesn’t matter. I call it rain-bathing. It’s just good to be out of the house.

First I should call Mum and see how Dad is. No, first I should think seriously about going back to Blackpool and sorting things out. No, I should call Mum and see how Dad is, and then think about going back to Blackpool and sorting things out. If Dad’s coming out of it then there’s no need for me to go back. But if there’s no improvement then I should definitely go back and help them get rid of that settee. And if they don’t let me give them the money for it I’ll lash it to the back of a horse and tow it around the streets ringing a big rusty bell till some cunt buys the fucker.

No, no, first I should call Kirk and see how he’s getting on. I should apologize for the other night; for being such a useless, embalmed mute. No, first I should just go round and see Kirk. If I ask him on the phone if he wants me to come round he’ll say no, and so I should just go round there anyway, leaving him no choice. I should ask him if he wants to stay in the flat with me and promise to be there every second of the day and night, waiting on him hand and foot.

No, no, no, first I should try to get through to Eleni again. Perhaps she can’t get through, or perhaps her mother’s dead and she can’t get it together to call me, given what was said when we parted. Perhaps Sofia’s dead and Yiorgos has crumbled. Perhaps Eleni’s too busy piecing Yiorgos back together to worry about me. Perhaps she’s just left me. But I should call her anyway, whatever. Whatever the circumstances I should just keep trying, every second of the day and night.

No, no, no, no. First I should just swig this beer and smoke this fag and let everything sink in a bit more.

So that’s what I do. Then I go and get another beer and light another fag and lie back in the rain, letting everything sink in a bit more.

An hour goes by.

Another beer and ten more fags.

The sky is tangled and wet, like an old man’s beard. The rain is iced and black and up there in the clouds I can see bottles and cushions, knuckles and buttocks. Up there in the clouds I can see Lenny Snook, slumped down in his pants, nipples like bullet wounds. ‘Sometimes You Need Some Clarity,’ it says.

First I should call Lenny.

No, first I should go and get another beer, and then I’ll call Lenny. See how he’s doing. See what he’s been up to. See what’s going on. See what’s going on with Brenda. See what’s going on with Rosa. See what happened when she called round the other night. That’s what I should do, I should call Lenny and see what’s going on with Lenny.

Fuck Mum and Dad and their ugly settee.

Fuck Eleni and her dying mother.

Fuck Kirk and his dying self.

Fuck this weather and just lying here letting it all sink in.

I should just call Lenny. See what Lenny’s up to.

Just as I start dialling, the phone rings in my hand.

‘Hector, I’ve sorted it all out. I’ve spoken to Lapping,’ says Myers.

‘Who’s Lapping?’

‘Alfred Lapping. The collector who bought
God Bolton
from Saatchi.’

‘Ah,’ I say. There’s a flash of lightning.

‘Lapping’s willing to loan it out for the show.’

‘Why are we gonna show
God Bolton
?’

‘Because it’ll sit nicely in the alcove and it hasn’t been on public display for over two years and it’ll be a bigger draw than any self-portrait.’

There’s a beautiful roll and then a whip-crack of thunder.

‘What?’ says Myers.

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘So what do you think?’ and I can picture him on the other end of the phone, skipping around his office.

‘But, Joe,’ I say, ‘I’ve nearly finished the self-portrait.’

‘Hector, you’ve only been working on it for four days. The show opens tomorrow night. How can it be nearly finished?’

‘In fact I think it is finished.’

‘I’m coming round,’ says Myers.

‘Don’t do that,’ I say.

‘Hector, Lapping is serious about this loan. Now if you’re saying that you have the self-portrait finished and the show opens tomorrow, then I need to see it. I’m on my way round.’

‘Don’t do that, Joe,’ I say, but the phone is full of rain and the line goes dead.

One doesn’t say the line dies. One says the line goes dead. Funny that.

‘Hector Kipling didn’t die. Hector Kipling went dead. Ladies and gentlemen, what am I bid? We start at twenty million.’

It’s three o’clock and I’m sat at the piano. Eleni hasn’t phoned. I haven’t phoned Eleni. Nor have I phoned Mum, or Kirk, or Lenny. And nor, for that matter, have any of them phoned me. Mum’s probably got her head in the oven, Kirk’s probably dead, and Lenny’s either getting stabbed by Brenda or fucking Rosa. Or fucking Rosa and then being discovered by Brenda – and then getting stabbed. Whatever, it’s no excuse for not phoning me.

I don’t know what Eleni’s doing. I can’t believe I haven’t tried to call her again.

I’m playing an E flat diminished, the way Eleni taught me. I switch
on the video and wind forward at random. I light another cigarette and then press Play. There’s a woman – the same woman who put the polythene bag on her head – lying on a bed, surrounded by green candles, masturbating with a ginger wig pressed between her legs.

I pick out notes at random and somehow it seems to fit.

The doorbell rings and somehow that fits too. It rings again.

I run across the room, struggle with the ladders and throw a huge sheet over the painting.

The doorbell rings again.

I run back to the piano and pause the video.

The doorbell rings again.

I run over to the intercom, big strides, like a sprinter, and skid on a marble. I go flying. My head smashes against the ground and I hold onto my elbow. If I hadn’t had four beers I’d be in agony.

The doorbell rings again; this time for a long time, on and on till it sounds like a fire drill.

I pick up the phone and Myers’ face appears on the screen. Horrible face it is. All fat from cake and pork, big blowsy nose like a wrestler’s knuckle. ‘Hector?’ he says.

‘All right, Joe! All right! Stop ringing the fucking bell.’

He steps back into the street. He doesn’t know I can see him. He puts his hands down his trousers and sorts it all out.

I’m standing on my threshold waiting for the lift to fail. I can hear the groaning of the cables and a buzz and then a clank as the doors settle and ease apart. And here’s Joe ‘The Eyes’ Myers. Horrible face it is. One eye lower than the other two.

‘Right,’ he says, striding into the room, ‘I don’t have long. Where is it?’ He knocks the tip of his umbrella three times on the floor like he’s been watching
My Fair Lady
all afternoon.

‘Do you want a drink, Joe?’ I say, backing towards the kitchen.

‘I’ll have a beer,’ he snaps, ‘do you have a beer?’

‘Do you want a glass?’

‘No, no, I don’t have time for a glass. Where is it?’ He looks over at the big white sheet. ‘Is this it?’

‘Yeah,’ I shout, ‘but wait till I get the beers. OK?’

I settle myself in the kitchen, but I can see him through the hatch. Joe sits down in the armchair. He scans the white sheet as though he’s reading his obituary. After a while I weave back into the room with two cans.

‘Hector,’ says Myers, ‘are you drunk?’

‘Of course I’m drunk, Joe, of course I’m fucking drunk. What do you take me for? An invalid?’

‘Right then,’ says Myers, snapping open his beer, ‘let’s see it,’ and he jabs his can in the direction of the sheet so that a bit spills onto his trousers.

I walk over to the hem of the sheet, put down my beer, light a fag. ‘Joe,’ I say, ‘Mr Myers, this might not be what you might not be – might be – might not be what you might be expecting.’

‘Get on with it,’ he says, taking a big swig.

I take the corner and, calling out something that must sound like ‘Da da da da Daaa!!’, pull and run with the sheet across the room like a feisty gymnast at the opening of the Olympic Games.

Silence.

Myers leans back in the armchair and looks at the big black canvas with two converging red lines.

Silence.

I fold the white sheet over my arm.

Silence.

‘What is this?’ says Myers.

‘It’s my—’

‘What the fuck is this?’ says Myers.

‘Well, Joe, it’s my—’

‘What the FUCK is this, Hector?’

‘That, Joe,’ I say, ‘. . . is me.’

‘Hector, this is dog shit.’

‘No, Joe, it’s something new.’

‘Yeah it’s some new dog shit,’ says Joe, ‘only distinguishable from old dog shit cos it’s still wet.’

‘No, Joe, it’s me.’

‘Exactly.’

‘No, it’s me. What you see before you is me.’

‘Hector, you’re drunk out of your mind. What happened? In between me phoning and me arriving you did this?’

‘No, Joe,’ I say furrowing my brow, ‘this has taken me . . . days.’

Myers puts his beer on the table and pushes himself up. ‘Right, well that settles it. I’m calling Lapping right now and getting
God Bolton
over there by tomorrow.’

‘But, Joe, Joe,’ I say, ‘this is my self-portrait.’

‘Hector, that is not a self-portrait. That is strange minimalist . . . discharge.’

‘Joe, this is not minimalist.’

‘Then what is it? Figurative? Impressionistic? Pre-fucking-Raphaelite?’

The pause on the video clicks onto play and suddenly there’s the woman with the ginger toupee between her legs.

‘Oh my God!’ says Myers.

I throw down the sheet and stagger towards the screen. I hit stop. ‘It’s not porn, Joe. That’s not porn and that,’ sweeping my arm out, ‘is not minimalism.’ I feel like Peter O’Toole. ‘Far from it.’

‘Hector, I don’t care.’

I move towards him like Bela Lugosi – like Peter O’Toole playing Bela Lugosi.

‘Back off, Hector, back off.’

‘You know what minimalism is, Joe?’ I scream, as he trots towards the door and then out down the stairs. ‘A true minimalist does nothing and gives it no title. Minimalism, Joe, means not even drawing attention
to its non-existence. The true minimalist, Joe, doesn’t even arse himself to get born.’