The Late Hector Kipling (20 page)

What a guy!

Rosa smiles and looks down. This is obviously not the first compliment she’s ever received. Her familiarity with such foppery is apparent from the precision of her skill in accepting it. She smiles, bows her skull
and stares at the floor, offering up her mind without the burden of the eyes, making herself all the more beautiful. There is nothing more beautiful on this earth than casual guilt feigning considered innocence. Or is that just me?

‘Oy oy,’ says Lenny, ‘what are you two looking so coy about?’

Rosa straightens up.

I take a swig of my wine but forget to take the cigarette from my mouth and the result is just silly.

‘Has he proposed to you?’ says Kirk.

‘Or merely made a proposition?’ says Lenny.

I really wish these two had stayed away a bit longer than they did. Another five years would have done it.

‘Fuck off,’ says Rosa, ‘you think a man and a woman are incapable of communicating with each other without loosening each other’s pants?’

‘Yes,’ says Lenny and clinks Kirk’s bottle.

‘Oh, hello, Eleni!’ says Kirk, looking up into Eleni’s eyes.

‘Oh yeah, hello, Eleni,’ says Lenny. And then he looks down at my legs and cocks his head. ‘Are those Brenda’s jeans?’

‘What?’ I say.

‘Are you wearing Brenda’s jeans?’

Kirk looks at my legs.

‘What?’ I say.

‘You’re wearing Brenda’s jeans.’

‘No I’m not,’ I say.

‘Who’s Brenda?’ says Rosa.

If I’m honest, I’m not really enjoying myself.

‘They look like Brenda’s jeans,’ says Lenny.

‘Well, they’re not.’

‘Who’s Brenda?’

Lenny lifts up my sweater. ‘That’s Brenda’s belt!’

‘I know,’ I say.

‘Why are you wearing Brenda’s belt?’

‘To hold up Brenda’s jeans.’

‘So you are wearing Brenda’s jeans?’

‘Oh yes,’ I say.

If ever there was a perfect moment for an asteroid to collide with Western Europe, now is the time.

Lenny stares at me.

‘He’s probably got her knickers on as well,’ says Kirk.

‘Who the fuck’s Brenda?’ says Rosa.

Suddenly, behind us, there’s a commotion and we all turn to look. It’s fine by me. Matthew Collings is down on the floor holding onto his head. That’s fine by me. Myers is pelting across the room in his yellow suit looking like an animatronic fucking omelette and the tall lopsided foppish-looking fella from the canal is rushing towards
God Bolton
with a bucket full of something horrid.

‘Fuck,’ says Lenny.

‘Fuck,’ says Kirk.

‘Fuck,’ says Rosa.

They all say it at the same time. In fact a lot of people say it. Maybe everyone says it. I know I do.

‘Fuck!’ I say.

I’d like to tell you that it all happens in slow motion, but it doesn’t. It’s all over in a flash. In fact there is a flash. There’s a dim, hypnotic, sad little flash as the bucket spins, catches the spotlight and smashes into God Bolton’s throttled blue throat.

Oh dear.

I’m outside now. And I’m running. Oh yes. You might even say that I’m in pursuit. It’s frosty and calm, almost pastoral in a brooding, industrial kind of way. Still. Silent, save for the sound of Tall Lopsided’s boots slapping against the cobbles. Tall Lopsided’s legs getting away from my short tubby ones. As he disappears into the dark, headed for Vallance Road,
I swing out wide on the corner of Tent Street. I hear a snatch of Nina Simone, it gets a little louder, louder still – what is that song? – and then suddenly a huge silver Volvo appears in front of my thighs. I bounce up nicely against the windscreen and land with a thud on the greasy grey pavement. What a mess. Someone’s thrown away a vegetable samosa and half a bottle of Lucozade. Bus tickets rocking in the breeze. The Volvo hasn’t stopped. I can hear him changing up a gear. Someone has tried to chalk the
Mona Lisa
on the wall. My spine feels like a buckled slinky. There’s a copy of
Razzle
flapping about in a doorway. ‘LIVE, 30 second wank GUARANTEED!! 09090 44 79 79.’

Oh dear.

When Rosa said, ‘Paint me,’ I saw no canvas nor palettes. I saw only my brush on her flesh. I saw her legs apart so that I could get into the corners.

Myers had tried to rugby-tackle Tall Lopsided as he sprinted across the room towards the door, but Mental Delaney had got the wrong end of the stick and rugby-tackled Myers, who crashed to the ground with a bold yellow ‘Ooof!’ For a few seconds no one moved. Most people stared at
God Bolton
, monitoring the progress of the dark and noxious fluid as it made its way down his collar into the bevels of the frame. Collings was still on the ground, but even he couldn’t resist the thrill of how it would turn out. I looked at Lenny and then at Kirk. Lenny and Kirk looked at me. It no longer seemed to matter that I’d painted Lenny like a dead, emasculated Nazi reclining snottily in his coffin. It no longer seemed to matter that I was wearing Brenda’s jeans. I looked at Rosa. Rosa looked at me. The most bizarre thing I could have said right then was ‘Wait here’ but that’s exactly what I said, and then paused for a moment, balancing on one leg, feeling a bit like Batman. And off I went, thundering down the stairs, alone, frightened, fractured, scuffed, incredulous, my mask a bit skew-whiff and my cape caught on the banister.

Lying there on the pavement amongst the grids and litter I was beset by an overwhelming and relentless sense of déjà vu. Abundant and tireless.
There was nothing vague about it, nothing fleeting. The images were crystal and endured for well over fifteen minutes. The effect of all this was that during those fifteen minutes I fancied that I was capable of -if not madly accomplished at – seeing into the future. For fifteen minutes of my life I was able to anticipate and then witness the ensuing few seconds of my existence with alarming accuracy. It was as though the anticipation and the fulfilment of each shattered incident existed at one and the same time. For instance, it was inevitable that a small bird would land, mess around with half a bagel and then alight, scared off by the slamming of a distant door. As I stared at the wheels of a milk float I heard the flapping of wings. And there was the bagel, midway between the samosa and the copy of
Razzle
. I lay there on the kerb and wondered if anything was broken. Nothing hurt, but I wondered if anything was broken. Maybe everything was broken. Maybe I was finished. Maybe all this seeing into the future meant that I was finished. Maybe one is only permitted to see into the future when one has no further investment in it. Maybe one would eventually tire of seeing the future and beg to see the past instead, as a treat, on a Sunday: three hours of the past for a whole week of the future. Every Sunday, every week, for evermore.

Apparently, the whole exhibition fell apart after the attack on
God Bolton
. The stink of the dripping manure saw off the first batch. Only the most curious remained. Someone, who shall remain nameless, had commented on how, somehow, the resonance of the room had been enlivened by the passion of assault. Eventually the appearance of the police rendered the whole affair rather unsavoury, leaving only the intimates, the alcoholic, the dedicated and the dedicated alcoholic intimates. I am told that Myers gave my number to the police since I was the only one who had arsed themselves to attempt apprehension of the attacker and, for all Myers knew, might even have succeeded. But I’d been gone for an hour by then and nobody knew the outcome. Some
feared that I had caught up with the attacker only to be attacked in return. Others feared that I had caught up with the attacker, attacked him and then suffered a subsequent arrest. Others, namely Matt Collings, wondered if I wasn’t in fact in cahoots with the attacker and the whole thing was just another part of the show. Whilst still others thought it likely that I hadn’t even got close to the attacker and was therefore merely sobbing into my hat, like a big fat baby, on the steps of the canal. Who knew? And would they ever know? Who knows? The whole thing was a nice little mystery for them all.

Lenny and Kirk had bid goodbye to Rosa at the gallery entrance. They planned to take a cab round to Box Street to see if I was there, but failing that they were off into town to try and salvage the evening. Rosa, since she lived just around the corner, declined the offer of a lift and said she would walk.

Stilettos on cobbles, that was the first thing I heard. Of course it came as no surprise.

At first I couldn’t open my eyes. I could feel her hand on my forehead, pushing back my hair. Her cold rings, the sound of her bracelets. When I did open my eyes it felt like they’d been rolled in petrol. The night was sticky with gum. Each blink was the slamming of a door.

Calling an ambulance didn’t seem to occur to her. Instead she opted for dragging me down the street, me on all fours, all threes in fact since she had hold of one of my hands, smiling down at me, offering me encouragement. What can I say? It worked. This is the street where Rosa lives: La Via Delia Rosa.

She eased me onto her white settee and covered my bleeding brow with a white flannel. She knelt down on the white boards and whispered, asking me how I felt. I really had no fucking idea about all that kind of thing and so gave her no answer. My eyes were open and I knew that I wasn’t in a coma, but I might have been. I knew that I wasn’t
dreaming, but I was hardly awake. I knew that I wasn’t dead, but I was assured that my life was over. Her eyes were close to mine. Someone, somewhere, was learning to play the tom-toms. She took a long look into every corner of me – it lasted for years. Eventually she smiled as though she’d just reached the punchline of a weak joke. Her own eyes were a brilliant crocodile green, spattered with black, like tiny gunshot. It was around then that my ability to foresee the approaching seconds abated. Up till now I had felt as though my body was suspended on broad jets of air, but suddenly the supply was winding down, so slowly, so gently, soft white fingers twisting the taps. I was here. I was here, wherever it was. I was in the white room, bleeding on the white settee. The white flannel, the white taste, the white walls, Rosa’s small white face peering through her sweaty black hair. The white shelf above the white grate was populated by white horses, balls, pebbles and skulls. Rat skulls, rabbit skulls, cat skulls, otters, birds, badgers, bats. Maybe even the skull of a pig. All white and dry and filled with old flies. Fly skulls. The skulls of dust. The telephone was white. The candles, the chairs were white. My Little White Death.

She brought me through a cup of something she called tea, though it was filled with bits of stick and strange black pods. I burned my lip on the first sip and put it down on the floor.

‘What the fuck happened to you?’

Here she was, close up. Not an atom out of place. She wore a white T-shirt that covered her thighs. Purple toenails. Tattoo of a cartoon bomb on the bulb of her anklebone.

I told her about the pursuit, the car, the dried-out samosa and how, right up until now, I’d been able to see into the future. She said that that was either a shame or a blessing. I asked her what she meant but she only bowed her head and sipped at her tea. In turn, at my request, she filled me in on the events following my departure from the gallery.

‘Horse shit?’

‘That’s what most people thought. I mean it was definitely shit but
there was some difference of opinion as to the species. And then it started to smoke a little and there was this smell. There may have been some kind of acid in there along with the horse shit, the whole thing was kinda melting.’

‘Melting?’

‘Kinda, yeah. Smoking and melting.’

‘Can it be saved?’

‘Well, that guy in the yellow suit who was running the show asked if there was a painter in the house, and your friend Kirk stepped up and suggested warm soapy water and kitchen roll.’

I sighed.

Well, there I was on Rosa Flood’s white settee. Sighing and bleeding.

‘Do you have a cigarette?’ I said and she went into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out a packet of Dunhills. After helping herself she handed me her Zippo and I lit one. I turned the Zippo over in my hand. There was a crude engraving on one side: ‘To Rosa. Smoke yourself to the bone and chain. Charlie C. – An Old Flame’.

I didn’t like that. I didn’t like that one bit.

‘I guess this is all kinda strange.’

‘Er . . .’ I said, ‘er . . . yeah. You could say that.’

She took a long drag of her cigarette, almost finishing it in one. ‘So what was all that about, man, that guy flinging that pail of horse shit all over your painting?’

I’d fallen into a kind of daze, even though the Kodo drummers were rehearsing in my heart.

‘I mean, why did he do that?’

‘I have no idea,’ I said, but wished to God that I did, cos the last thing I wanted right then was for the conversation to dry up.

‘I mean, do you know him?’

I told her about having seen him twice before. I told her about the sighting in Tate Modern, but I didn’t mention the toilets or the crying.
And I told her about the church but I didn’t mention Eleni, and when she asked me what I was doing in a church I muttered something about Thomas Hardy and Westminster Abbey, giving the impression that I was well read and that the whole thing took place in Westminster Abbey.

She went on to tell me some story about how Thomas Hardy’s heart was eaten by the family cat. ‘His body was cremated and his ashes entombed in Poets’ Corner, but his heart, so they say, was to be buried in the family plot. But, on the day, it was left out on the kitchen table and the fuckin’ cat ate it. Yeah, man, you should paint that kinda shit. And Walter Raleigh’s widow, she carried his head around in a bag for the rest of her life. You should paint that as well.’

‘You seem to know a lot about English history.’

‘Two things is hardly a lot.’

‘I suppose not.’

She was struck by a new thought and clapped her hands together, bouncing on her rump and squealing, like a skittish child. ‘Or Rasputin under the ice, struggling to get his hands free.’

Well at least she wasn’t suggesting Greek myths.