Martin Amis - Lionel Asbo

‘I left the door open — just a crack. Half an inch. First Jeff has a go, then Joe has a go. They’re mashing their noses in the gap. And ten minutes later they’re inside!’

‘There. You condemning youself out of you own mouth. Would they do that if I was in here? It’s wide open now and are they coming in? You too soft on them, Des. You like a girl when it comes to the dogs. And don’t change the subject.’

The subject. Night after night Des faced moody and repetitive interrogation on the subject of Rory Nightingale. Tensions glided under the fluorescent tubes at the same speed as the shifting silks of Lionel’s cigarette smoke. With a Marlboro Hundred in one hand and a fork in the other, he broodingly consumed great quantities of the only dish he ever consented to cook (or at least heat up): Sweeney Todd Meat Pies. And these pies, these quantities, were not without significance. Des was too close in to see the pattern clearly, but Lionel’s appetite always climbed sharply when he was readying himself for something fairly bad.

‘So he’s clever,’ Lionel would say. And Des would say, ‘Yeah. Mr Tigg reckons he’d be very clever if he tried. But he’s never there.’

‘So he’s always after everyone for money,’ Lionel would say. And Des would say, ‘Yeah. He’s always after everyone for a couple of quid. Trying it on.’

‘So he’s a chancer. Like Ringo,’ Lionel would say. And Des would say, ‘Yeah. He’s a bit like Uncle Ring. In that respect at least.’

‘… Tell me, Des. Do girls like him? Or just old boilers? … Come on, Des, you hiding something. I can tell. I can always tell.’

‘Well, yeah, Alektra says they’re all mad for him. But he likes them older. He says when it comes to sex, kids are crap.’

‘Continue, Des. Let’s have it.’

‘He — he’s always saying he’s bi. I’m adventurous, he says. I’m a sexy boy.’

After an intermission (chewing, smoking, nodding), Lionel said, ‘Nah. I won’t lay a finger on him. Wouldn’t demean meself. I wouldn’t demean meself, Desmond.’

‘… What’ll it be then, Uncle Li? Warn him off?’

‘Warn him off? Warn him off what? He’s already done it! Round there again last night. Gran must think I’ve gone soft in me old age.’ He licked his lips. ‘Sexy boy, is it. I’ll give him sexy.’

This was on the Thursday. On the Friday, who should show up at Squeers Free but Rory Nightingale.

IT WAS THE kind of morning that the citizens of this island kingdom very rarely saw: an established and adamant clarity, with the sun pinned into place, as firm as a gilt tack; and the sky, seemingly embarrassed by such exalted pressure, kept blushing an even deeper blue … Dark and gaunt, like his shadow, Desmond (to whom lovely skies always whispered of loss and grief) stood on the patch of sandy astroturf beyond the gym. Rory Nightingale was here. And Des made the call. He failed to see what else he could do.

Three fifty-five. Crisply dressed, with his face half-obscured by a copy of the Diston Gazette , Lionel sat waiting in the open-fronted bus shelter across the street. Des approached.

‘He’s in detention. Got an hour’s detention.’

Lionel gazed out from his solarium of dust-stippled glass. ‘Better,’ he quickly decided as he took out his phone and thumbed in a message (it consisted of one digit). ‘We’ll get this rubbish out of the way a bit quicker than we thought.’

‘Well I’ll be off home then. You can’t miss him.’

‘No, Des. You sit by here.’

The school emptied, the blazered figures unenergetically dispersed, the thin traffic grew thinner and thinner …

‘There he is.’

‘Get to you feet. Call him over — call him.’

Lionel flung an arm round his shoulder and Des felt a prehensile tightening at the back of his neck.

‘Here, Rory! Ror!’

With a kind of lolling wariness the boy crossed the road. For an instant his lip ring gave off a molten gleam.

‘Let you out in the end, did they?’ said Lionel. ‘And on an afternoon like this. Teachers, they a load of losers. Now you know me — I’m Des here’s uncle. And listen. I got a pal, I got a pal, he’s a uh, an amateur photographer. Fashion. With more money than sense, eh Des? Named Rhett. And he … Hang on. Here he is now.’

A sleek and muscular saloon pulled up, and out climbed Marlon Welkway. Marlon Welkway — his glistening quiff, his ironical squint, his matinee smile.

Des felt himself dismissed with a push, and off he started, trying not to hurry. A minute later, as he made for the first sidestreet, he turned his head — and it was all right, it was all right, the boy was walking away in the other direction, the two men were poised to duck under the car’s glossy carapace, and the three of them were waving airily, and Marlon’s pink shirt pulsated in the breeze.

The weekend passed quietly.

‘Be gone all night,’ said Lionel, with resignation (it was Saturday evening). ‘Cynthia. It’s her birthday. And I hardly ever miss her birthdays. Well. Never two in a row.’

On Sunday Lionel again took his leave at dusk, stern and silent (all business), and again wasn’t seen until morning. So the weekend passed quietly — indeed for Des almost inaudibly. He couldn’t say why, quite, but he seemed to have re-entered the plugged world of the deaf.

‘Ah, Des. Little Des. How’s the lad this morning?’

They had collided on the landing of the twenty-first floor, Des going down, Lionel coming up. At Avalon Tower, the lift was now terminating on the twenty-first floor.

‘Oh, you know,’ said Des. ‘Not so bad.’

‘Mm. Well this’ll put a spring in you step. That matter with the boy. Problem solved.’

‘What you go and do?’ said Des sullenly. ‘Smash him up?’

‘Desmond! No. No. Nothing of that nature. You can’t smash up a kid … Des. You say you friendly with his mum and dad. Well. They need never know. Need never know how he come to bring this on hisself. There … We’re due a celebration, Des. Tonight — let’s have one of our usuals. Deal?’

Beyond, through the pillbox window, you could see the tallowy sky of London, like thin snow on a field of ash. Turning, Lionel gave out a soft snort and said,

‘I thought you told me he was clever … ‘

The word hung there, as Lionel went on up, and Des went on down.

‘Kay Yeff Cee . Kay Yeff Cee . Kay Yeff Cee . Kay Yeff Cee .’ Lionel’s voice wasn’t that loud, but it had the defiant, white-lipped force of a football chant. ‘Kay Yeff Cee . Kay Yeff Cee . Kay Yeff Cee .’

They lowered their trays, and sat facing each other over a ledge of zebra-patterned laminate, unzipping little sachets of ketchup, mustard, sweet relish; they sampled their Sprites through the fat straws, and started on the chips and the Kentucky-fried chicken.

‘Don’t say I don’t look after yer.’

‘I’d never say that, Uncle Li.’

‘… I reckon you doing all right, Des. Since I took you under me wing. Gaa, the state you were in when I come to you rescue. Crying youself to sleep at night. You was … you were always brushing up against me for a hug, like a cat. And I’d say, Get off, you little fairy. Get off, you little poof . I’d say, If you want to ponce a cuddle you can go round to you gran’s . But now,’ he said, ‘you doing all right.’

‘… Yeah, I’m okay.’

‘Oy. You not eating you dinner. Eat you dinner. Eat you dinner.’

Desmond ate. Ate the chicken, fried just as he liked it, Kentucky-style, the way Colonel Sanders himself prepared it, and normally so answeringly luscious to his taste. But now … He thought of the only time he ever had a tooth filled, four or five years ago, and afterwards, as promised, Cilla took him to the caff for his favourite, mushrooms on toast, and his mouth was full of novocaine and he couldn’t distinguish anything more than a presence on his frozen tongue — his tongue, which he then caught in his jaws without even feeling it, and there was blood on his chin but no tears on his cheeks …