Martin Amis - Lionel Asbo

The wide door swung open in blinding light. And there was the stippled, mottled nudity of Lionel Asbo. Des’s eyes sought what they could not but seek: and Lionel was rawly and barbarically erect … Beyond him, through the curved glass, greenery trembled, foxtail, flowering rush, the leaves of trees and their shadows.

Obliviously Lionel pushed past him (what after all was Des doing in this dream?).

‘Marlon! You all right in the dark there, Marl? I’m not neglecting you needs?’

There was no answer. Lionel moved forward.

‘Look up, son. Meet me eye . Meet me eye. And see this? See the lipstick on it? See it?’

Marlon looked up — then dropped his head. And Des again was gone.

‘NICE. I HOPE you’re proud of him. That’s really nice, that is. Charming.’

‘Can we change the subject for a minute? I’m still in recovery.’

‘Okay. How about … Matthew?’ she said. ‘Matthew. Mark. Luke. John.’

‘John,’ he said. ‘John, Paul, George, Ringo. Please. No names.’

‘Yeah. No names. No more names … I hate names.’

He had just come in (train delay caused by a suicide on the sunken tracks a mile or two from Liverpool Street), and Dawn was about to serve up dinner. In the meantime he was enjoying a saucerful of pickled onions.

‘Rachel. Delilah. Gaw, you should’ve seen his cars, Dawnie.’ Des listed some of the makes. ‘And he’s got this mammoth SUV. It’s called a Venganza. Spanish for revenge . Carbon-black — no shine. It’s like an Armoured Personnel Carrier. For Special Forces. And it’s split-level! You press a button and this little steel ladder comes down. Headlights the size of dustbin lids. Does three miles to the gallon. Esther. Ruth.’

‘Nahum. Solomon. So you reckon he was at it with Gina in the sauna. Peter.’

‘Looked that way. Not Peter. Peter Pepperdine? That’s like Peter Piper picked a peck of … Giving Gina one in the sauna. There he was. Mother-naked.’

‘And with a big bonk on.’

‘Dawnie,’ said Des (and he hadn’t told her about the lipstick). ‘Yeah. Like that pissed demigod. Bacchus.’

‘Or Nessus,’ said Dawn. ‘The centaur. Who kidnapped the wife of Hercules.’

‘Yeah. Dejanira … Dejanira Pepperdine. Niobe. Echo. Echo Pepperdine.’

Dawn said, ‘Bloody hell. Why’d they go along with it? And Gina giggling away in there. Jacob.’

‘Jacqueline. I don’t know. Must be for the money. See, there’s all Jayden’s debts. And Marlon’s a gambler. But Gina. She sounded — all keen. I don’t get Gina … Tina. Nina. Zina.’

For a moment Des tried to think like a criminal (this was in any case becoming a professional habit). And he realised that in the little encounter at ‘Wormwood Scrubs’ he had dangerously strengthened an enmity — as a witness to the unmanning of Marlon Welkway. That would be remembered.

‘And he had her strip in the library! … Des, remember his speech? At the wedding?’

‘Oh yeah. How’d it go? With her trousseau up round her waist and her knickers round her … Must’ve done a sort of re-enactment. Mary. Eve. Dawn, this chicken smells funny. And the broccoli’s all bitter.’

‘… You love your chicken and broccoli!’

He reached for the jar of pickled onions and speared a big one with his fork. ‘Miriam.’

‘… Mean Mr Mustard. What’d he say about the rent? Tell me again? Hector.’

‘Antigone. He said he’d help out. Whatever that means. I’ll believe it when I see it. Callisto.’

‘Mm. If it’s a girl I want it to sound … ethereal.’

‘Ethereal. Okay. Let’s call her Frenody.’

They laughed. Despite everything, which was saying something, they were both, for the most part, irresponsibly happy.

‘But what if it’s a boy? Go on, Des. Let’s phone Iqbal and find out.’

Iqbal was the enormous Punjabi warrior who — immaculate in his green rompers — oversaw the sonogram at the Maternity Centre. Des and Dawn loved Iqbal. They loved Mrs Treacher, the head midwife (she looked like the Nurse in Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet : a ravenous, eager-eyed rustic — ravenous for life, life). And they loved the Maternity Centre. Unlike all the other hospitals they’d ever been in, the Maternity Centre was eerily odourless. Hospitals, in their experience, smelled of school dinners. As if pain, mortality, death, birth, all the great excruciations, subsisted on a diet of boiled carrots and semolina …

‘Why should Iqbal know what sex it is when we don’t?’

‘ Iqbal doesn’t care. He’s not sitting there gloating over it. Sniggering and rubbing his hands. To him it’s just another baby!’

‘Oh, let’s, Des. Then we’ll only spend half the time talking about names. Edward.’

‘Edwina. No, Dawnie. It’s better not to know.’

‘Why is it?’

‘Just because you can find out doesn’t mean you should.’

‘Well it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. Either.’

Twisting in his chair, he said, ‘Cilla never knew. Gran never knew. And her mum, and her gran — they never knew.’ Meaning what? Meaning something like: you oughtn’t to separate yourself from your predecessors — your predecessors, in their countless millions. ‘Angelina.’ And there was another reason too (he was superstitiously convinced), though he hadn’t yet quite fathomed it. ‘Some kinds of knowledge it’s better not to have, Dawnie. Angeletta.’

‘Andrew. D’you think he’ll do anything for Gran, Lionel?’

‘He might. He might well. He’s worried about his image. Gudrun.’

‘Gudrun Dawn Pepperdine … No. Then she’d be GDP! Gross Domestic Product. Sounds horrible. You got to keep your eye on the initials, Des … And Daphne?’

‘Daphne? Nah. Oh. You mean Daphne .’

‘Yeah, Daphne.’

‘She was …’

He again unscrewed the jar of pickled onions … For obvious reasons Des had never regaled Dawn with the story of his application to the famous agony aunt. And Daphne’s reply, back then ( You are both committing statutory rape ) was so durably terrifying that Des almost fell over backwards when Lionel, looking up from his lounger, said airily, This is you Auntie Daphne. Daphne — from the Sun.

‘I’d imagined an avenging angel,’ he said. ‘You know — a judger. But she seemed a nice little dear. Maybe she’ll send Uncle Li one of her pamphlets.’

‘Mm. Dos and don’ts for lotto louts. Prostitute your best mate’s wife. And make him watch.’

‘I reckon she’ll write an honest piece. Sympathetic.’

‘Sympathetic? I hope she gives him a right slagging.’

‘Dawnie! No, don’t. Don’t start. Angelica.’

‘… Des, I’ve decided. Boy or girl, let’s call it Toilet.’

‘… Good, Dawnie. Toilet Pepperdine. That’ll do.’

She got to her feet and said, ‘So goodbye to those bathers.’

‘Looks like it. We got any ice cream?’

‘… Your cravings are back!’

‘It’s not a craving! I just fancy some ice cream!’

‘Ice cream. Strawberry ice cream, Des. And pickled onions.’

‘Yeah well I know.’

He leaned down and stroked the cat. Goldie’s arched and ribby back, her tingling tail. He wasn’t going to tell Dawn about his other cravings — his cravings for ash and notepaper and laundry starch. His secret cravings, and his secret aversions too, like mental allergies, his dreads, his nightsweats. And now, unbelievably (there must be some mistake), this mess of fears — Des, Desi, Desmond — was being asked to take receipt of a whole new human being …

‘Cats are girls.’

‘And dogs are boys,’ said Dawn Pepperdine.