The Late Hector Kipling (38 page)

Call the police. I look around for a phone. Call the police as soon
as you find the phone. Isn’t this all the evidence you need? The cops can haul him in, and then whilst they’re holding him, Mum can identify him as the man who . . . Oh bollocks, this is all so fucked! Does any of this match up? Let me think about it again. Let me just stand here, rooted to the spot, and go over all this again. Is this any kind of evidence? I begin to cry. I don’t know. Is this any kind of evidence? How am I gonna prove that he took the money? I know fuck all about the law. Aren’t they gonna want solid evidence? What if I point the finger at Monger but they have no right to hold him? What’s he gonna do to me then? What’s he gonna do to me anyway? And what the fuck am I doing here, stood in the middle of his fucking flat, when he might come home at any second? I need to reason with him, that’s what I need to do. Maybe I should leave him a note. A note! Ha! What am I thinking of? I need to call in the fucking military, not go leaving him notes.

My body has turned to ice. I can’t swallow. I don’t think that I will ever be able to swallow again.

I’ve found the phone under a pile of old towels and I’m shaking so much that the earpiece is banging against my head. At the other end it just rings and rings. Lenny must have forgotten to switch on the answer machine cos there’s no end to this ringing. I try his mobile and go straight through to the voicemail, which is no good at all. I hang up and try another tack.

‘Hello?’

‘Mum, it’s me, it’s Hector. What’s the news?’

‘Oh, Hector,’ she sighs, ‘Hector love, where have you been? I’ve been ringing and ringing. Where are you?’

‘It doesn’t matter where I am, Mum, I’m asking you what’s the news?’

‘Oh my God, you’re round at the trollop’s house!’

‘Mum, I’m not round at the trollop’s house. I’m asking you what the news is.’

‘There is no news,’ she barks. ‘He’s still out for the count, there is no bloody news!’

I look around the room for a cigarette and find a fat cigar. What the hell, it seems a little inappropriate, but I light it anyway. ‘Listen, Mum, I don’t really have the time to have a big old chat right now, I just need you to do something for me.’

‘Have you spoken to Eleni?’

‘Mum, I need you to put down the phone and then dial 1471 and phone me back with the number. Can you do that for me, Mum?’

‘Why? Where are you?’

‘I’ll explain later.’

‘You’re at her house.’

‘Why would I . . . Mum, if I was at her house . . . I mean why would I be asking you to do this?’

‘The trollop’s house!’ she screams down the receiver. ‘The trollop! The trollop!’

‘Mum, will you stop calling her the trollop?’

‘Why, what do you want me to call her?’

I actually pause to consider this. After giving it some thought, trollop seems just fine.

‘Mum, please just do what I’m asking you to do. Please!’

‘Eleni’s mother’s dead and you’re off out in the night playing silly buggers. I can’t believe I’ve raised such a heartless, conniving, bloody—’

‘Mum!’ I bawl and take a big hit on my cigar.

‘Now you listen here, Hector. Don’t you dare scream at me. Don’t you dare scream at your mother like that!’

I hang up.

Not good, not good. Not at all good-son behaviour, I know, but I don’t really have the time.

I press a few more buttons.

‘Myers?’

‘Hector? Hector, what on earth is going on?’

‘I’ll tell you later. I’ll explain everything later. Now listen . . .’

Myers does as he’s told, calls back and I write the number on the back of my hand.

‘So what’s all this about?’ says Myers.

‘Er . . .’ I say, and hang up.

Out in the hallway I hear a door open and slam downstairs, which is a shame cos I wasn’t really planning on leaving these premises the same way that I entered them. Nevertheless, given this slamming of doors, I tighten the belt on my gown, stub out the cigar and scramble off in the direction of the bathroom, leaving myself no time to collect the case of money.

I haven’t wet myself since I was six – apart from twice when I was seven, three times when I was eleven and once in my teens after a pint of tequila, but I was unconscious each time – so this is a first. I’m still. Dead still. As terrified as I’ve ever been in my whole life. What if it’s him? What if he finds me here? And how can he not find me here? Why the fuck did I light that cigar? I can hardly breathe. My murder may be only minutes away. Not only my death for fuck’s sake, but my fucking murder. I can hardly breathe for the excitement. How will he do it? With a knife? With a hammer? An axe? Oh God in Heaven! I collapse onto the toilet and let it all out. Once the water has settled I curtail my breathing and listen.

Footsteps on the stairwell.

This is it, this is it: The Real Thing. These are most certainly my final moments. My very last minute on the face of this planet. And what has it all meant? What is revealed? Is anything put into perspective? Is anything resolved? No! No! Nothing at all; I am to die as I have lived: trembling, craven and confused. At this rate I won’t even earn a grave. I may even be robbed of my death. I’ll just be missing. Missing sbeneath the floorboards or dissected, boiled and distributed in small pieces the length and breadth of the country, or maybe just flushed down the khazi. Not good.

I leap up from the toilet. For fuck’s sake, Hector, you have to at least try and make an escape. I put my foot on the sink and raise myself up onto the window ledge, Monger’s telephone number bleeding across the back of my sweating hand. Another door slams and then silence. A door opens and then more steps. I’m far enough out of the window for him to give me a small push and that would be it. My robe is caught up on the taps and I have no choice but to jettison the fucking thing. I slither out of the small opening and land on the roof, naked and torn. Naked as the day I was born. But let us not speak of the day I was born. Not so late in the day that I’m about to die.

The leap from the drainpipe to the ledge was a small feat compared to the suicidal recklessness of the leap from the ledge to the pipe. In fact it seems totally impossible. If this were a film and I were the hero then I might just make it, but it’s not a film and if I were to attempt such a thing then I’d just be a fat naked corpse spreadeagled across a huddle of bottles and bins.

Idea For a Piece: Just a fat naked corpse spreadeagled across a huddle of bottles and bins.

I hear the front door open and a light comes on in the hall. It’s only a matter of time before he smells the cigar, finds my dressing gown in the sink and starts nosing around.

The night is setting in. I have surely seen the last of the sky. I crouch against the wall, trembling in my final dusk. I think I may be about to pray. Pray! Me! Ha! ‘Our father,’ I whisper and think of Dad, ‘who art in hospital, Derek be thy name.’ Impossible! Impossible to pray at a time like this. I bring down my hands and hold on to my battered penis.

‘Hello?’ I hear him shout. ‘Who’s there?’

Silence.

Oh my God, I think I’m getting a hard on.

The telephone rings and I hear him pick it up. ‘Hello? Who’s that?’ Pause. ‘Yes, I know you are. And I’m asking you who you are.’

Someone’s peeping at me from behind a lace curtain on the other side of the street. I keep my hands over my groin. Perhaps they’ll call the police. Is that a good thing? I squat, staring back, trying to work out if that’s a good thing.

‘Connie Kipling?’ bellows Monger.

Oh, nice one, Mum.

‘How did you get this number?’

Before it’s too late I scramble to my feet, swivelling my head in search of new solutions. It seems that I have the option to make it onto another roof nearby. It’s still gonna have to be a mighty life-or-death Hollywood-style leap but it’s a better option than the drainpipe.

I hear Monger yelling at Mum and then the phone slammed down. Just as the bathroom light comes on I take a deep breath and leap. I fly through the October night in slow motion, teeth bared, tail up, eyes agape. David Attenborough would have been proud.

I hid in the bushes, squatted on my haunches, bloody feet in the wet soil, half-tempted to forage for ants. My breath billowed into small damp clouds and I pretended to be a dragon. I picked up a twig and pretended to smoke. Calm. Calm. Nice and calm. Well at least I was alive – if you can call this life. Alive, and with a reasonable chance of seeing the morning. At least I wasn’t a headless torso, oh no, not really – it only felt that way. The sky flew off into outer space and it began to rain. I sheltered there for a long time, tented by the sooty leaves. What I really needed was a drink. But where was I gonna get a drink in this state?

Idea For a Joke: Bald, bleeding, naked savage walks into a bar and orders a double whisky. ‘Sorry, sir,’ says the barman, ‘I’m going to have to call the police.’ Er . . . that’s it. Big laugh, round of applause.

The windows at Box Street are quickened by candle flame. I can hear strains of Haydn oozing through the open loading doors, warming up the rain. It’s almost as though Eleni were back home. If only, if only. The moon is up and full and must surely be shining across the wooden floor. I bet they’re at it. Oh yes, that’s what they’ll be doing; no doubt about it. Eating each other alive, sucking on each other’s bits, licking each other to the bone. Meanwhile I’m down here in the street in a stinking tartan blanket that I found in the boot of some burnt-out car.

Ringing on the bell is, of course, out of the question. What am I gonna do, disturb them? Alert them? Give them time to reposition, reconvene into an appearance of platonic decorum? Oh no. I’ve come too far for that kind of thing. That’s what they’re banking on. I know what’s happened: they’ve come back with a cosh and a sack of Valium, but I’m not there. Lenny’s seen my keys on top of the piano and taken it as an all clear to shimmy out of his togs and give Rosa a good seeing to. Little does he know that she’ll suck his eyes from their sockets. Little does he know that she’ll be tipping gunpowder into the blind eye of his cock and launching it, with a blowtorch, toward the far hills of Neptune.

There’s a discreet, hardly noticeable, little manhole on the towpath of the canal that can easily be lifted with a suitable lever, and there on the ledge is a spare set of keys. It was Eleni’s idea. Most people would just leave a set with one of the neighbours, but not Eleni. For Eleni, it was akin to buried treasure. For Eleni, even finding herself locked out of her home was turned into some quaint adventure. She loved the romance of the quest. Perhaps she’ll come to love it again. Perhaps. After all: I love Eleni.

I don’t take the lift, but tiptoe up the stairs, crafty as you like. Nice to be inside. Though nice is not the word. The key is so beautifully silent as it slips into the lock, like threading a needle. Already I can hear my worst fears confirmed. Their sweetly strangled sobs, their pathetic oohs and ghastly ahhs, creeping out beneath the door and onto the stairwell. What a pair of treacherous automatons. I mean, her I can forgive, I suppose, she owes me nothing, but Lenny . . .

Once through the door, I realize that these strains of mangled betrayal are not emanating from the bedroom. Rather, the groans and sighs are rising from the settee; the Naked Settee. Lenny has laid it back on its feet and I am able to spy him naked and writhing through the silly little window. And now that I listen properly, it’s Lenny who’s making all the noise. Doesn’t sound like she’s having such a good time. In fact she’s making no sound at all. That’s not like her – but then maybe Lenny’s just not like me.

Haydn’s gone all silent and cheeky, like a half-drunk sprite.

I crouch down and approach the back of the settee on all fours. Fucking thief! Fucking fucked-up fucking thief! I’ll surprise them. I’ll give them the shock of their fucking lives. I throw off my blanket and pad across the floor like a bloated mog. Lenny groaning. For fuck’s sake, man, get a fucking grip. I creep right up to the little window and peer in. What a sight! What a fucking disgraceful fucking apparition: Lenny’s sweaty head, Lenny’s purple mug contorted in rapture. The get. The unholy fucking get. I twist my head but I can’t see her. I can see her thighs wrapped round his hips, but her face eludes me. I raise myself up on one elbow to get a better view. It looks like they might be coming to the end. Lenny’s hardly moving now, his groans are receding and his eyes are stilled. I give a little knock on the window. He looks over. I smile and wave. No response. I smile and wave again. No response. He just stares straight through me, cold, unblinking.

I think I can say that he’s no longer my best friend. He’s not even my worst friend. He’s no friend at all. In fact he’s my enemy. I want to destroy him. I want to see him in pieces. I rise to my feet and look down at the two of them, and, as quickly as I rise, I fall. I fall back onto the floor, totally appalled, totally unconscious. I didn’t expect to see that.

Odd, given the circumstances, that my dream should have been such a pleasant dream. But it was. Utterly pleasant. Me and Aunty Pat combing the beach for shells and me finding a pearl. Simple as that.
No history and no consequence. Me and Aunty Pat, by the sea, on a warm spring afternoon. Odd, given the circumstances.

I have no idea of the time, but I awake with only one thought in my head: ‘So she doesn’t really love me after all. She said that she loved me, but she never really loved me at all.’ That’s the thought. Sad, isn’t it? But it’s all right, cos I never really loved her either. After all, I love Eleni. I never stopped loving Eleni. Not for one second.

I’m gonna have to stand up again in a minute and deal with reality. I’ve never been particularly adept at dealing with reality, even when the reality in question was comparatively benign. So how in hell am I gonna deal with this sort of reality? And furthermore, is this reality? Is it possible?

Haydn’s on a loop, the same old surges and lulls, over and over. I have to stand up now. I have to stand up, if only to turn off this incessant flightiness. One more note and I shall lose my mind.

Click. Silence.

Any moment now I’m going to turn round and confront the Goyaesque atrocity that awaits me in the middle of my living room. Living room! Ha! What an expression.