Martin Amis - Lionel Asbo

‘Oh. Sarcastic. All right,’ said Lionel, with the air of someone perhaps already prepared to seek a compromise. ‘All right. Ask to be transferred to other duties. Away from the uh, the crime desk.’

‘Uncle Li, every desk at the Gazette ’s a crime desk. It’s Diston.’

‘Crap. There’s sport.’

‘Sport?’

‘Yeah. Look at this. At the back. They got football. Snooker. Bit of darts …’ Lionel turned boldly to the centre pages. ‘Or the Xtra Section. Look … TV Guide … Do It Youself … Signs of the Zodiac … You Problems Solved … Or there’s the small ads.’

‘Yeah, there’s the small ads. Sorry, Uncle Li, I’m happy where I am.’

‘Are you now. Well you lost to shame. You lost to shame. And I ain’t … Okay. Okay.’ Lionel’s face now took on a leer of naked cunning — cunning undisguised, cunning entirely uncontained. So much cunning — even Lionel didn’t know what to do with it all. ‘Uh. Now Des. Obviously I been meaning to put something aside for you and uh, little Dawnie. Obviously. All that’s stayed me hand’, he said, staring at that hand (its scarred knuckles, its bitten tips), ‘is the best way to go about it. You know. Lump sum. A uh, an annuity. Shares. I’m a wealthy man and it’s a worthy cause.’ Welfy, wervy . ‘But there’s no chance, no chance, if you go on doing what you doing at the Diston Gazette .’

Des smiled and said, ‘Forget it, Uncle Li. You know me — I’m a socialist. Don’t hold with unearned income. Anyway. I’m going up in the world. I’m being taken on by the Daily Mirror !’

‘… The Mirror ? Well now. The Mirror ’s a bit different. The Mirror ’s —’

With an electric flurry the overhead lights came on.

‘Ah, “Threnody”!’

SHE SAID FROM the doorway, ‘Does he want a lift in? I wouldn’t mind the company. I’ll give him a lift in. I’m driving.’

‘Driving? Where’s Mal?’

‘His kid’s sick. So I sent him home … Does he want a lift in?’

‘Him? No. He’ll have his ticket, “Threnody”. He’s eaten. Mrs Lucy give him a nice slice of peat for his lunch. No, he’s going in a minute but he’s got his cheap ticket, “Threnody”. He doesn’t believe in free rides. He’s got his cheap return.’

‘Well I’m off.’

She stood quite still; then, as if released, she strode forward. In a sharply waisted black jacket, a tight hoop-striped black-and-yellow skirt, and yellow stockings, she reminded Des of a thought that had once or twice surprised him: the unlooked-for prettiness of young wasps … Lionel angled his cheek to receive her kiss, and she remained there fragrantly murmuring over him and smoothing the stubble of his hair. There were more kisses, more murmurs. Des took this in with approval. They seem to be making a real go of it , he could already hear himself telling Dawn . You know. Mutually supportive. Really caring and …

‘Threnody’ straightened up and said, ‘I’ll give them three per cent. For the credit line. And the exposure.’

‘Sounds about right.’

‘They can reapply.’

‘Go on then. Oy. Are you seeing that bloke tonight?’

‘What bloke?’

‘The yacht salesman. The J-cloth. Where’s he from?’

‘Raoul? Beirut. And he’s a Christian if you must know. You bet I’m seeing him. I’m gasping for a shag.’

‘I know the feeling.’

‘Well don’t look at me.’

‘I won’t.’

‘ Yeah yeah yeah yeah.’

‘ Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah.’

‘ Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah.’

After this (at least) numerical victory, ‘Threnody’ turned to Des and said,

‘Here. Les. You’re young. You work for the papers. How come they don’t go on about me like they go on about Danube? It’s always Danube. Danube Danube Danube.’

‘Jesus,’ said Lionel with a passionate groan. ‘ Dan ube.’

‘Danube. Yeah, Danube. Why’m I the wannabe Danube, Les? Why isn’t Danube the wannabe “Threnody”? Why? Why?’

‘All them foreign blokes,’ said Lionel. ‘It’s because you been out with all them foreign blokes. No Englishmen.’

‘What about you? You ’re an Englishman and no fucking mistake.’

‘Yeah. You first one.’

‘Yeah yeah yeah yeah. Come on, Les. Tell me. Why’s it always Danube? Go on. Why?’

‘Uh,’ said Des, ‘you’ve put me on the spot here. I don’t know, maybe it’s because she’s a mum. Celebrity Mum of the Year, wasn’t she? She’s got children. Whatever else she is, she’s a mum.’

‘Threnody’ narrowed her eyes at him. And with that mouth, like the zip on a lady’s purse: for a moment she looked like a rock-hard oil-rigger recalling some murderous offshore blaze. ‘Hear that, Lionel? I got to have a fucking baby now!’

And away she scissored with her swift, fussy stride — and Des thought of Gran, coming back from the shops that time, with egg and bacon for Rory Nightingale. That same determination, and yet with something precarious in it. That same determination to thrive.

‘Love you,’ snapped ‘Threnody’ over her shoulder as she pushed on the door.

Mournfully Lionel called out after her, ‘Not the “Aurora”, “Threnody”. Take a Merc.’ A Mer-cuh . ‘Or a BM! … Ooh Des,’ he said, with decided admiration, ‘remember that bird in that prison in Iraq? Lynndie England? That’s what I call “Threnody”. Lynndie England. She’s torture . It’ll take about a year, she says. Then we’ll both have what we want … Okay, any other business?’ Not for the first time he looked intently at his watch. ‘Jesus, it’s always later than I think. Tick-tock goes the clock. You better be on you way, boy.’

‘There’s all these barebacked plugs and the fire doors are all jammed. She’s got rope burns on her wrists. And frozen joints and pressure sores. And I saw a tin of Whiskas on her bedside table.’

‘Whiskas?’

‘She needs better care, Uncle Li.’

‘Well it’s not for fairies, is it. Old age.’

‘She’s just turned forty-five.’

‘Then what she expect? Comes to us all. And anyway, why bother moving her? It’s all one to Grace. She’s past caring.’

They were now in the domed entrance hall — the size of a quarry, with its sluggish echoes, and the chutes of sunlight coming through the fleur-de-lis windows up above the orbital gallery. Des said,

‘I see Ringo — I see Uncle Ring’ll be in the People . Next Sunday.’

‘Yeah, Megan told me they was flagging it. Who cares. Let him spill his guts for fifty pee.’

‘Still, that might get picked up on, Uncle Li. All over again. You and the five brothers. They might want something on Grace. And they could make it look bad. You here — and her there. Picture it.’ Des pictured it: a Shock Issue of the Daily Mirror , on Gran’s home. ‘You on your lounger by the pool. Grace strapped to her mattress in the attic. Could make it look bad.’

‘… They could and all. Yeah. They’d distort it and make it look bad. That’s what they do, Des. Consistently. Distort it and make it look bad … Christ, how come Megan never thought of that? She costs enough. Or Seb fucking Drinker.’

‘There’s a better place, Uncle Li. I went up there. Couple of miles out of Souness. On the promontory. Called the Northern Lights. It’s dearer, mind.’

‘How much dearer? Jesus, you a one-man Black Monday, you are.’

‘It’s up on Clo Mor Bluff. There.’ He reached into his shoulder bag and handed over the sleek brochure. ‘Looking down on Lochinvar Strand.’