Martin Amis - Lionel Asbo

‘You know, Des,’ said Lionel, with unusual thoughtfulness (with unusual difficulty in his worked brow), ‘Sunday morning. I’m lying there Sunday morning. I’d just had this dream about Gina Drago. And she was all dark and uh, glowing . Beautiful. Then I open my eyes and what do I see? Cynthia. Like a dairy product. Like a fucking yoghurt. And she says, What’s the matter with you? You had a nightmare? And I said, No, love. It’s just me guts playing up . Because they all got feelings, haven’t they, Des. All got feelings. God bless them.’ He swiped a hand across his mouth. ‘Kay Yeff Cee , Kay Yeff Cee , Kay Yeff Cee .’

From KFC they went on to the Lady Godiva.

‘ Get yuh tits fixed, Get yuh tits fixed, Get yuh tits-fixed-for-the-boys!’ sang Lionel. ‘ Get yuh tits fixed For the boys — OOH … Attend to the performance, Desmond. I paid a fiver at the door for yer, and you not watching. Attend to the performance.’

A visit to KFC traditionally entailed a visit to the Lady Godiva. The boozy hues of amber and mahogany, the hangings of mirrored cigarette smoke. The shallow stage, and the listlessly undulating dancer. Des’s whole being hated it here (the worst bit, for him, was when the girls went round with their collection bags for the tips, and the customers felt them up for an extra fifty pee). But tonight he was hardly aware of the Lady Godiva — just as, earlier on, he was hardly aware of KFC, with its bank of illustrated edibles above the service counter (each plateful, it seemed to him, in a different stage of garish putrefaction), and the presiding icon of Colonel Sanders himself, like a blind seer.

‘Ten years I been with her — Cynthia. Ten years. More. And I don’t even … I reckon something must’ve put me off skirt. Something in me childhood. Everyone else is at it. Why aren’t I? Eh?’

‘… You’re too busy, maybe,’ said Des with a gulp. ‘And you’re away a lot.’

‘That’s true. Anyhow . Let’s not spoil the celebration. The scales of justice, son. The scales of justice. She’s had it coming for years. Grace has. Now, Des. I know you slightly concerned about uh, young Rory. But it doesn’t matter what happens to Rory. That’s immaterial. Totally immaterial. What matters is putting the right fucking wind up you gran. Besides,’ he said with a grunt and a smile, ‘Rory’s adventurous. He’ll try anything … Hang on darling, here’s a quid for yer. All right? I won’t touch! Get yuh tits fixed, Get yuh tits fixed. GET yuh tits fixed For the boys — OOH .’

Now all this began to take on shape and form in the world of the manifest.

As early as Wednesday morning Des passed the corner shop and saw a familiar face staring helplessly out at him through the sweating glass: Have You Seen This Boy? The same sign was tacked to the door of the sub-post office. At school, a greatcoated police officer stood at the gates and, within, there were eager rumours about the two plainclothesmen who were questioning everyone in year ten. Des sat bent at his desk beneath his personal thunderhead; but nothing happened, and Wednesday passed. On Thursday there were stickers gummed to every other lamp post in Carker Square — plus a filler in the Sun (Another Diston Lad Missing). And in Friday’s Gazette there was a report, on page twelve, entitled ‘We Are At Our Wits’ End’. Already on Tuesday morning , Joy Nightingale was quoted as saying, I knew something terrible had happened. I felt it here in my throat. Because he always calls in, without fail. No matter wherever he is, he always calls in . Two photographs: Rory between his parents on a park bench at Happy Valley, smiling over a cloud of candyfloss; and Joy and Ernest at home, on a low settee, and hand in hand. If anyone knows anything, then please, please, please …

‘He’s standing there at the door. I hadn’t seen him in five years. Five years. Not since he smashed up poor Toby. And he says, Hello Mum. Here. Hold this . And he’s put this sticker on my face, this thing sticking to my face … And my knees went and I sank down. I sank down, dear.’

Entirely unadorned, entirely undisguised, Grace was sitting by the window in her usual chair. But no music played, no folded Telegraph rested on her lap, no teacup steamed on the little round table, no Silk Cut twined its spirals in the saucer ashtray.

‘Look at me, Des.’

He looked. The fluffy pink slippers huddled together, the arms leanly and stiffly folded, the notched mouth, the sepia ringlets, the weak grey stare. And he imagined the blank grid of a crossword, with no answers and no clues.

‘Oh, it’s all up with me now, love,’ she said, and hugged herself tighter. ‘I can’t close my eyes. The boy. I can’t close my eyes for fear of what I’ll see.’

LIONEL WAS ON the balcony with Joe and Jeff. With Joe, Jeff, the break stick, the lunge pole, the plastic bucket, the twelve-pack of Special Brew, the sagging cardboard box. Beyond him, the usual London sky. The white-van sky of London.

Des dropped his satchel and went on out.

‘Seize. And hold,’ said Lionel. ‘Seize. And hold.’

‘… You giving them a drink tonight?’

‘Yeah. I’m doing a deep-eye in the morning. For Marlon. There’s a nasty nip in the air over in Rotherhithe. And I’m going to go and sort him out. See the new doll?’

Lionel’s sagging cardboard box contained half a dozen joke-shop rubber effigies, a black, a brown, a tan, a pale. The new doll was Fu Manchu-ish, with tendril moustache.

‘Why?’ said Des, with an edge in his voice. ‘What for?’

‘ I don’t know. I didn’t ask.’ He shrugged. ‘We cousins. We help each other out. You don’t ask what for .’

Des went back inside and sat down hard on a kitchen chair. He had just seen Joy Nightingale on Creakle Street — Mrs Nightingale, alone. With his heart thudding in his ears he watched her plod by, eerily and wrongly alone; no Ernest matched her step, no Ernest held her hand … Clutch. And clench , said Lionel, wielding the lunge pole, with the drool-soaked Chinaman speared on its pointed end … Now Des closed his eyes — and what did he see? Rory. But Rory wasn’t dead; he was deathless; the immortal boy kept disappearing and reappearing — kept being plucked apart, and put together again, and plucked apart again … Straddle, grab, sunder , said Lionel, wielding the break stick. The break stick was a kind of hardwood chisel. In it went between the dog’s back teeth. Then came the vicious twist.

One by one the twelve tall cans of Special Brew were primed like grenades and upended over the plastic bucket.

‘Here. Ringo won the Lottery again. Guess how much.’

‘… How much?’

‘A tenner. The Lottery’s a mug’s game if you ask me.’ Lionel was leafing with quiet satisfaction through the Diston Gazette (the Diston Gazette had had time to fill up again, like a sump). Behind him, their tails high, Joe and Jeff licked and lapped with clopping sounds. ‘It’s funny. A missing girl — that’ll hold they attention for a bit. But a missing boy? It’s as if he’s never been … See this, Des? Jesus. That’s senseless , that is. That’s senseless .’

Des now had before him the front page and a headline saying THE LOOK OF GUILT and the dismally mesmerised faces of six young men, all of them black.

‘Six of them. Gangers,’ Lionel went on. ‘So six London Fields Boys come down here. They come down here to put theyselves about. And they go and top this fifteen-year-old. All six of them! That’s senseless , that is. And he wasn’t even white!’