Free The Late Hector Kipling by David Thewlis

my grandparents died before I was born, so I missed out on that as well. None of my friends have ever died and no one I know or knew has ever died, so I missed out on that as well,and I missed out on seeing Tutankhamen and now he’s pedalling out to sea on his bike. I didn’t even know he had a bike.
    Eventually, of course, three years ago, I did get to see some death. I got to see Godfrey Bolton’s corpse hanging from the rafters and I was naked and I fell in love with Eleni Marianos right there beneath Godfrey Bolton’s swinging grey feet and that’s when I started painting big heads. Godfrey Bolton’s big dead head. No one knew it was Bolton cos I didn’t paint it from life, obviously, he was dead, and the coroner hustled him away. The eyes were open and the mouth was open, and although he was grey and green and God knows what other colours, everyone thought he was just a bit intense. I called it God Bolton, and with me being from Lancashire everyone just thought it was some intense bloke from Bolton; as though it was a comment upon the town. But it wasn’t. It was Godfrey Bolton and he was dead, and it was beautiful, and Saatchi bought it, and suddenly I was famous. Interviewed, photographed. So what should we make of all that? Well, let me tell you something else.
    New York, December, 1980. A jewelled forest of candles outside the Dakota Building. Millions upon millions of people all over the world, grief-stricken, incredulous, stunned. Me too. Oh yes, me too! But was I sorry for Yoko? Was I aching for little Sean and Yoko? No. I was sorry for myself. I was aching for myself. I was jealous of Yoko and little Sean. Jealous of Sean’s and Yoko’s grief, of the dignity, the nobility, the gravitas it bestowed upon them. And that’s never gone away. I envy them to this day. I envy their famous and tragic history and I’m sulking cos some part of me wants it. I want that history. I want that gravitas. I want the texture of death. I want people to know and feel sorry for me and comfort me and say things like ‘How awful’ and ‘We can’t imagine’. I want that. I want that awful intense and serious unhappiness, cos then I might feel better, and then I might be happy.
    Which brings us to Kirk Church and his tumour.
    We had to carry Kirk home from the Pillars of Hercules. He couldn’teven stand by the end of it all. Lenny had his shoulders and I had his feet and we lugged him across Soho Square, along Carlisle Street, across Wardour and down D’Arblay to Berwick Street where he lives with his collection of boxed scorpions and a cat called Bacon. And cutlery. A ridiculous amount of cutlery. Like it’s some sort of mental problem he has. We carried him up the stairs and dropped him on the bed and then he went and shat himself. He was muttering, ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ over and over as we worked on him with a flannel. But he wasn’t saying it to us cos he was asleep and dreaming. Lenny didn’t want to go home. Lenny couldn’t go home. Lenny was scared to go home cos he’s splitting up with Brenda Barker, and Brenda Barker throws knives and plates, and rips up floorboards, and then throws floorboards, so we agreed that Lenny would stay the night and that I’d go home to Eleni, cos I love Eleni and that’s what’s right with my life. But I’ll tell you what’s wrong with my life. I’ll tell you the problem with my life. The fucking problem with my life is its lack of death. And now Kirk might be dying and I might get what I want, although, of course, I don’t want to get what I want cos I don’t want Kirk to die. Anyway, for now, while Kirk’s still alive, all the attention’s on him. Everyone’s sorry for Kirk, everyone’s rooting for Kirk, not for me. And it’s only when he’s dead that I’ll get my share and I’m lying here in my bed and Tutankhamen’s pedalling his bike out to sea.

    Mum called the next morning. She said it’s fine about the blood on the settee cos they never