The Late Hector Kipling (36 page)

‘Optimism?’

‘Yeah, optimism. And that’s sort of what this piece is about, yeah?’ he says and nods at the big settee. ‘I mean, for example, what if all these reports of the supernatural are valid? Or what if it’s only language that defines an end, when the truth is that there’s no such thing as an end. You know what I’m talking about.’

Do I, Lenny? Do I really? I don’t fucking think so, mate.

‘I’m talking about the transformation of energy. I’m talking about materialism versus spiritualism. Just because we have insufficient mental resources to comprehend some kind of soulful continuity, it doesn’t necessarily imply that such a scenario is implausible.’

Silence.

‘For example,’ he adds.

Silence.

‘So,’ I say at last, asking the only question that – in my opinion – needs to be asked, ‘where’s Kirk now?’

Lenny stares at the floor, basking in the conferred privilege of owning the answer to such a question. ‘Here,’ he says.

‘Here?’ I say.

‘Right here.’

‘Right,’ I say, ‘and so, like . . . I dunno . . . can he like, hear us and stuff?’

‘He doesn’t need to hear us. He hears everything. Knows everything. Hearing us – this conversation right now – is small fry to the likes of Kirk. The dead – dead Kirk – see beyond this moment. The dead see the consequences, as well as the history, of this moment. And actually,
“see” is the wrong word. I’d say that “know” is the word, but that’s not really the word either. In fact, of course, there isn’t a word.’

‘OK,’ I say and light another fag.

‘He’s with us right now. He really is.’

‘OK,’ I say, ‘really, I’m not arguing with you.’

Silence. A distant drill and the odd seagull over the canal.

‘You’re smoking a lot,’ says Lenny.

‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘I know,’ and take a long drag.

Silence.

Silence. Mozart. The small noise of my thumbnail against the filter and the ash landing on the dirty blue saucer.

‘So what’s going on with you and Rosa?’ says Lenny.

I see. So it’s come to this. Well, I suppose it was inevitable. Dear me. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. That it has come to this.

I laugh. I actually throw my head back in laughter. ‘What do you think’s going on?’

‘What about Eleni?’

‘Lenny, do you really expect some kind of informed answer to that?’

He shrugs his shoulders. I dunno. I mean—’

‘Come on, Lenny, it’s not exactly complicated is it? Eleni’s away and I’m fucking someone else. What is it that you need to know? Which part don’t you understand? I think it’s called an affair. It’s a common phenomenon. Read books, watch films. Take a look at the
Daily Mirror
now and again.’

He looks at me, disgusted. Appalled, I presume, by the chilly pragmatism of my response.

‘Don’t fucking look at me like that,’ I snap. ‘What was going on last night?’

‘Nothing was going on last night.’

‘What was she doing coming back here with you?’

‘Ask her.’

‘I’m asking you.’

‘And I’m saying ask her.’

‘Why? Are there different answers?’

‘No, there’s only one answer. The answer is: nothing.’

‘Nothing?’ I bleat, bringing my hands to my head.

‘Nothing,’ he says again.

‘Nothing?’ I repeat.

‘Nothing at all.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘Nothing at all.’

‘Nothing? Nothing at all? Really? Nothing at all?’

‘Hector!’ he bawls.

‘Lenny!!’ I bawl back.

Silence.

From the bedroom comes a little cough.

‘I’m going for a piss,’ announces Lenny, and strides off across the room.

‘Good,’ I call after him, ‘that’ll do you the world of good.’

I fucking hate him. I used to fucking love him, and now I fucking hate him. And I fucking hate her. Now that she’s squeezed every last atom of spunk out of me, I fucking hate her as well. I may even hate everybody. Everything. What was going on last night? Why those silences? Only mouths stoppered up with kissing are capable of such protracted silences. Lenny and Rosa kissing. I can’t get the image out of my mind. And yet, maybe I’ve got it all wrong. There remains the possibility that I’ve just jumped to – nay, leapt upon and devoured – conclusions. I feel sick the length and breadth of my colon. I am no longer in a position of control. I have fled the cockpit. I am hanging from the wing, naked and frozen, buffeted by the wind. And I’ll tell you another thing: here comes a loop-the-loop.

Here comes Rosa in Eleni’s favourite T-shirt, scratching at her fanny. Hair like an electrocuted puppy, eyes all puffy, and all the more beautiful for looking so perfectly adrift. Here comes Rosa, and there
goes the cistern, the sound of Lenny’s zip, footsteps, footsteps. The feet of my loved ones, headed this way.

‘What happened to my eggs?’ says Rosa.

‘There are no eggs. Do you fancy a beer?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

‘Good, I’ll go get us all a beer.’

‘Thanks.’

As I trot across the room, thrilled that things are progressing, Lenny emerges from the toilet, seeing to his buckle.

‘What’s going on?’

‘I’m getting us all a beer. You want one?’

Lenny frowns. ‘A beer? No. I bought some cranberry juice the other day. I’ll have a cranberry juice.’

Fucking geek.

The sun’s pouring in through the windows, flooding the walls and floor with a horrible yellow glue.

Silence.

The clink of glasses on the wooden floor and then me: ‘So,’ I say, ‘here we all are.’

They smile. Lenny’s slumped in the blue chair and Rosa’s squatting by the fireplace. Impossible to ignore the shadow at the top of her thighs.

‘Fag, anyone?’ I say, trying to keep things cordial.

‘No,’ says Lenny.

‘Yeah,’ says Rosa and reaches over (I’m leaning back on the Naked Settee).

‘Cheers,’ says Rosa.

‘Cheers,’ I say back.

I take a swig of my beer. Rosa takes a swig of hers. Drag on my fag. Drag on hers.

Lenny sips his cranberry and stares at his piece.

‘So,’ I say, and allow it to echo against the walls.

Silence. Sick of all this silence.

‘So what?’ says Rosa.

My brain scans an octillion different replies and, after a little consideration, comes up with: ‘So, Kirk’s dead, and here we are; all in our own little chapels of rest.’

‘What?’ says Lenny.

‘Chapels of rest,’ I repeat.

‘What?’ says Rosa, swigging and dragging.

I take a big swig of my own. ‘Well, let’s face it,’ I say, ‘none of us really give a fuck, do we?’

Silence.

The question hangs in the air like a starved vulture.

Silence.

Lenny reaches over and lifts a cigarette from my packet. Rosa watches him do it. So do I.

‘Do we?’ I say. ‘I mean, if we’re honest, deep down, right down there in the shafts.’

Rosa looks at Lenny. Lenny looks at Rosa. Both of them look at me.

‘What the fuck are you saying?’ says Lenny, saying something at last.

‘I’m saying that you came through that door, last night, giggling your tits off. Meanwhile Kirk’s in some fridge with a little brown luggage label tied to his toe, that’s what I’m saying. I’m simply saying that life’s allowed to go on.’ I pause and smile. Nice one. ‘I’m saying that it makes us all feel special.’ My smile broadens into teeth. ‘A little more important, a little more attractive.’

Silence.

Fat walloping silence.

They’re both staring at me. Agog. Beautifully agog. I see no reason not to go on.

‘I’m saying that we should all just be honest about this. I’m saying that we should forgo the pantomime . . .’

‘Pantomime?’ says Lenny, sitting forward, fingers forming fists.

‘. . . forgo the pantomime and come right out with it. Well, listen,’ I say, and rise to my feet with my hands in the air, ‘I’ll be the first one to voice it. I’ll be the instigator of the truth. I’ll say it right now, once and for all, for better or worse, come rain or shine, in sickness and in health; I’ll say it right now, hand on my heart. Here goes . . .’

‘Hector,’ says Rosa, as though she might leap up and soothe me. She doesn’t. She just sits there and says it again. ‘Hector,’ she says. But it’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough.

‘Shut it!’ I say. ‘Not now. I’m about to say it. I am about to speak the truth. For once in my life I am about to speak the truth. Here goes. Here goes . . .’

I spread my feet and arms into a small star shape. I tilt back my head to expose my throat and then: ‘I’m glad! I am glad. So glad and so fucking happy. So glad and happy that Kirk Church, one of my best friends, is dead. Glad that he’s gone. Glad that Sofia is dead. Glad that we’re all dying. Glad that we all can. Glad that we must. Glad that we should. Glad that that’s the way of things. Glad that you’re both looking at me like I just took a Stanley knife to the throat of a baby. Glad! Glad, glad, glad!! Fucking happy. So totally fucking happy! So . . . so, so much . . .’ I’m losing the thread, come on now, Hec, concentrate, ‘I am a monster!’ I yell, scaring myself, ‘I am the most perfect of monsters. Kirk’s dead!’ I scream, and then: ‘Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!’

Ho, ho, ho. The look on their faces. You wouldn’t need a knife to cut the atmosphere, you could slice it in two with the foot of an elephant. This is living. This is it! This is fucking
it
! My God! What ecstasy! What immaculate fucking rapture!

And I’m not finished yet: ‘Eleni’s mother is dead. Ha! My father is on his deathbed. Ha! And if you two collapsed right now, right here, in front of me, then you know what? Ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ah ah ah haha
hhah ha ha ha!!!’ I begin to spin around the room like some coked-up dervish. ‘Ha ha ha a ha ggghg aha gha hhaaa hgh haaggggggh!!!!! Ha hha ha hahahhhhhggggh!’

After a few botched tackles, Lenny finally hits home and wrestles me to the ground. I manage to plant a small fist on the surface of his scalp but he counters with a smarting slap to my cheek. I pull away and stagger to my feet. Rosa comes in low and blasts me up against the wall. ‘Thief!’ I scream. ‘Fucking thief!’ I scream.

‘What?’ yells Lenny. ‘You talking to me?’

‘Yeah,’ I scream, really scream, ‘I’m talking to you, you fucking pickpocket, you fucking sneak thief fucking grave-robber. What else do you want from me? Take it all! Steal the lot. If I jumped out of that window right now, you’d jump out after me, and still make it to the ground before me.’ My eyes are nothing but hot salt.

‘What the fuck are you talking about, Hector?’ He slaps me again.

Rosa’s got her fingers around my throat and she’s squeezing me blue. Which, given the circumstances, seems a bit unnecessary. What a girl!

‘Go on! Come on!’ I croak, ‘Come on you vicious, parasitic cunts, kill me. Come on, do it!’ I take a deep breath and then: ‘Kiiillllllll meeeeeeeeee!!’

Lenny pushes Rosa away. She falls back against the settee and springs forward on her hands and knees, eyes like absinthe, hissing like a cat, which scares me a bit. Lenny takes my head in his long, soft hands, and dashes my skull against the skirting board.

Silence.

Black. Or white. I can’t remember.

But silence.

Perfect.

Sublime.

I remember that.

*

Idea For a Piece: A grave. A real grave. My grave. A little mound of earth and grass in the middle of the National Gallery. A headstone, a candle, a flower. Something tasteful. An orchid, a lily, or even a poppy.
The Late Hector Kipling.

Monger’s not dressed like Monger, and I’m not dressed like me. He’s wearing a hooded parka and combat boots. The hood’s up and his gloved hands are thrust deep into his pockets. I’m still in my dressing gown. Hood down. Classic Robe. He’s turning onto Lackerty Road. I’m on the corner of Baxter and Platt. As soon as he’s out of sight I set off in pursuit, months of gum and grease on the soles of my bleeding feet. It’s been almost an hour now, but I think I’ve finally tracked him down. He’s going into his pocket for keys. He’s struggling with the lock. Hood pulled back. Fag in his lips, making him squint. The door opens and in he goes, slamming it behind him.

It was the police who woke me up. Lenny and Rosa were standing off to one side, the image of innocence, whilst a young constable administered to me with smelling salts. Apparently my exhortations had been so loud and maniacal that a neighbour had seen fit to call in the cops. I made a statement, referring to my recent bereavements and made no mention of Lenny’s assault. The constable offered his sympathy and even held my hand as I sipped a glass of hot ginger tea. All the while Lenny and Rosa presided over the scene, silent, dispassionate, like
American
fucking
Gothic
.

Soon after the police left Lenny and Rosa were helping each other into their coats, shamed by my hysterics, shameless in their togetherness.

‘We’re going out,’ said Lenny.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

‘I just need to get out of here for a while,’ said Rosa, and off they went.

I flung open the loading doors and watched them as they took off down the street. They weren’t holding hands, but it looked like they might. Once they rounded the corner they would fall into each other’s arms and kiss like there were a million tomorrows. That’s why I screamed. ‘I’ll kill you both! I will fucking kill you both! You think I won’t kill you? Well, let me tell you this: I will fucking kill you!’

Then I saw the cop car, still parked there on the kerb, the young constable looking at me, mumbling into his radio.

‘Thank you,’ I called to him and waved, suddenly calm. ‘Thanks for your help. Thank you.’

And that’s when I spotted Monger, skulking in some doorway, spotting the cop, lighting a fag and making off towards the corner.

Great. Oh great. Oh just so fucking superbly fucking great.

I’m sat here, in the caff opposite Monger’s flat, writing a letter to Eleni. There’s a pile of eleven crumpled pages at my feet, and I’m not having much luck with the twelfth:

Dear Eleni,

I feel the need to write to you since I believe that you are owed some kind of explanation as to what was going on the other night. That girl in the bath was not . . .