Saturday, 6 November 2010

So Messed Up I Want You Here

Day before yesterday I finally tracked Kimba down. She’s been staying in her granny’s greenhouse the last week. Her granny won’t let her in the house because she knows what kind of girl Kimba is and she doesn’t want her to contaminate the sheets. But she has let her set little fires outside the greenhouse to keep warm by and she tells Kimba that if she’s still with her come next summer she can grow whatever she likes in there. I wouldn’t count on it.

I played this song on the stereo on the way over to see her:

She’d texted to tell me where she was:

“Danny. So horny. Am staying in granny’s greenhouse. Sik of friggin’ me’sel with only me fingers or tings held therein. Come over and do it do me Danny!”

So I give her a ring. For the address and exact directions and what her granny was like to speak to.

Turned out she were a very neat and very straight grey coloured old stick with tightly pursed lips always, which made it look, out of the corner-of-your-eye, like she had a button for a mouth.

So I passed her graciously in the hall, giving her a little curtsy as I went, something I always do when deferring to betters.

I went outside into the garden and over into the greenhouse to find Kimba sitting reading the Fred West strip in Viz.

- Remember I said me and you were like Fred and Rose, - I said quietly over her shoulder making her jump. - Killing our kids and all. Granted ours hadn’t actually been born yet, but why split hairs.
She turned out white as a sheet, teeth chattering – Remember you brought me home a McDonald’s Big Mac box with a kinder egg capsule (that you got the toys in) inside. I opened it. Inside was your cum. You said Fred used to do it for Rose all the time bringing her home little mementos, like sweet wrappers and ice lolly sticks, that he’d found in bins and skips and things like that.
- That’s right baby. That’s right, - I said closing in on her.

So I frigged her like she wanted. It put a bit of colour back in her cheeks.
Afterward she said, - Your nails are too sharp, Danny. When you stuck em up in there it was like driving a harvester through a field of sunflowers. That’s a very delicate passage, Danny. Probably the sweetest, tenderest passage you’ll ever move through.

I stroked her hair. – Get the fuck outta here, - she said blankly.
I walked a bit up the garden then turned to see if she were watching me go. She wasn’t so I looked at her back for a bit, which looked like an unmade bed and said, - I’ll call you in a day or two? But all I got back were the jumps of her bony shoulders as she heaved her tears and her sadness out.

So in the way pack in the car I played this:

and ruminated on the extraordinary versatility of human wickedness, and wondered on the sadness of Karen Carpenter.


  1. ...which got me wondering.What Was The West's Taste In Music? Anybody Know?

  2. Hmm...not too sure. Serial killers aren't known for their great taste in music. Apart from Richard Ramerez (The Night Stalker) who was a big fan of AC/DC...

    On another note, I read a perfect description of Karen Carpenter the other day: 'A suburban noir nightmare...' sweet - and accurate.