Worst. Person. Ever(8)

You’re either into this show or you’re not. It’s binary.



1. A dreadful, hideous modern euphemism for dying.





04


Tracking down Neal the next morning wasn’t hard. I walked into the off-license, held up a banknote and said, “Twenty quid to whoever can help me find my long-lost brother. He’s got one good eye, dresses like Duran Duran and stinks of the worst kind of dog shit.”

“Oh, that’d be Neal,” squeaked a trainer-clad gran buying a stack of (what else) lotto tickets. “Lovely boy and a great singing voice. This week I think he’s in a box behind the stationer’s on Old Oak Common Lane.”

“Thank you very much.”

“What about my twenty quid?”

“Only once I find my prey, Sea Hag,” I said over my shoulder as I headed out into the brisk fall air. I could practically hear that mummified old soak composing an indignant letter to the Daily Mail, beginning I’m a pensioner and …, at which point a lifelong diet of greasy fish, scotch mints and whimsically flavoured crisps catches up to her and she falls dead at her kitchen table, not to be discovered for weeks.

Neal was indeed inside a Samsung cardboard box, eating a Subway sandwich, when I found him. He squinted up at me. “Right, it’s Cunty, it is.”

“It’s Gunt to you, Neal. These your digs, then?”

“I’ll not have you knocking this box. Samsung has emerged as one of the strongest competitors in the Darwinian world of home electronics.”

“For fuck’s sake, Neal, it’s a cardboard box.” I kicked the side for emphasis. It emitted a deep bass thump and didn’t rupture, which gave me pause. “I have to admit, if you’re going to live in a fucking box, this isn’t a bad one.”

“My point exactly.”

“In any event, no boxes for you anymore, mate, I’ve found you a job.”

“For Christ’s sake, Ray, why would I want a job? I’m living the life, aren’t I?”

“Look, you ungrateful prick, I’m not talking about picking up litter along some wretched motorway or latrine duty at Rikers. I’m talking about a South Pacific lagoon populated with gorgeous, needy sluts, fuelled by an endless supply of rum drinks.”

Neal’s lone good eye stared into mine. “If you’re one of those people who collects hobos so you can take them home and eat their brains or something like that, good on you, but I’d rather keep my brains.”

“It’s not that at all.”

“Sex with you and the missus, then? Afterwards smother me with a dry cleaning bag and toss me into some brambles off the M5?”

“Why are you being so fucking paranoid, you ungrateful walking toilet? I’m on the level.”

“Really? So tell me more.”

One thought crossed my mind—fuck: “Do you have a passport, Neal?”

“Passport? Fucking right, mate. Have a look.” From within his maggoty jacket he produced a valid British passport. “What’s the matter? You look surprised.”

He handed it to me and I opened it to the photo page, and there he was, milky-eyed, hair all dagged up with shit and mucus, wearing a shirt like he was an extra from Oliver! His expression was crazed.

“I always thought one day I’d like to go and see Dollywood, USA. You know, the singer and that. It’s a world-class resort destination. An uddersome songbird she is.”

Fuck me ragged with a concrete dildo—this was going to work. “Neal, here is what we’re going to do. You are going to gather your few wretched shreds of possessions and we are going to throw them into a trash bin and you will never see them again. After that we are going to walk to my flat, where I will give you a Stanley knife and you will cut as much of your hair off as possible …”

“Hold on. I told you, no sexy shit.”

“I’m not finished. After you’ve sheared away that viral beavers’ nest, you are going to apply lice cream to your head—no, your whole body—and then shower it off. After this, you will don clean garments supplied to you by me. You will take vitamins, drink a glass of milk and then, at six o’clock from Heathrow, you will be flying along with me to the islands of Kiribati in the South Pacific, where you’ll be working as my personal assistant. I’ve just scored a gig as a cameraman on some dreadful American TV show where real-life people, not celebrities, shag each other for a few weeks and then turn into cannibals in front of my camera.”

“One of those survival shows, then?”

Hallelujah. “Exactly.”

“Why do you need an assistant?”

“Is it wrong to care about other people, Neal? Is it wrong to want to help?”