Martin Amis - Lionel Asbo

‘Pointy-headed’, Dawn was saying as she positioned the wicker cradle by her side, ‘means clever.’

‘Don’t joke about it. When you do that you’re —’

Des was cut short by the sound of an outlandishly brutal honk from the street below. At once he heard an answering shout of fright from the passage and the crash of a dropped tray. The honk was followed by more honks — as if a fleet of fire engines was barging its way up Slattery Road. Six or seven babies, from various directions, started crying; but Cilla lay still.

‘It’s the Venganza,’ said Des in a stunned voice. ‘The Venganza … He gave me a demonstration. In his garage. The horn’s got a sliding gauge on it. It goes from quiet to normal to loud to that .’

‘I … We don’t want him in here, Desi.’ She was leaning her body over the bassinet. ‘We’re too …’

‘What you mean?’

‘We’re too fragile . And he’s too bloody much!’

Preceded by a cellophane-wrapped thicket of red roses (and wearing a suit and tie of the same gunpowder matt as his SUV), Lionel strolled in through the open door. He paused in silent assessment, and grinned.

‘Now that’s refreshing.’ He tossed the crackling bouquet on to the spare cot, and stood there with his arms folded, taking it all in. ‘That’s very refreshing. To see some real misery for a change. Des, you look sick to you stomach, son. Coming home to you now, is it? Eh? Eh?’ Lionel approached. ‘Let’s have a look then.’

‘She’s dozing,’ said Dawn, and leaned back to let him see.

‘Jesus. Bit little isn’t it?’

Des explained.

‘Gaa. What’s wrong with its bonce?’

Des explained.

‘Well you made you bed now, son. You got to lie in it.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘All right, Dawn? Listen I brought a visitor for yer.’ He turned. ‘Come on, Des.’

Out in the passage ‘Threnody’ stepped forward, raising her black veil.

‘No more talk about babies ,’ said Lionel as he summoned the lift. ‘Now pay attention. I got a mixed report on you gran.’ There was good news, Lionel explained, and there was bad news. ‘Which d’you want first? Here. After you.’

They or their washy reflections entered the sheet-metal vault. Its doors gave a shudder, but Lionel reached for the button and kept his thumb on it. The surface beneath their feet swayed and settled, finding its balance.

‘Lungs. Heart. Call it old age. She’s got less than a year to live.’ This was the good news. ‘Here, how long since you been up there?’

Des told him three or four weeks. Now the lift started swaying earthward.

‘What was she on about? Daddy Dom still?’

‘No. She’s moved on to Lars. And a bit of Tolo.’ Tolo, Bartolome — father of Paul. ‘And even a bit of Jonky.’ Jonky, Jonker — father of George.

‘Was she still talking Greek? You know, still babbling?’

‘Yeah. More or less. You could work the odd thing out.’

‘Yeah well that’s what’s happening, Des. She’s started making sense!’

This was the bad news.

‘Who visits her?’ said Lionel as they crossed the entrance hall. ‘Apart from you.’

‘Well the uncles go up. Now and then.’

‘Who’s she phone?’

‘Mercy. Every Sunday.’

‘Mercy. Old Ma Mischief. You know what we’re in, Des? We’re in a countdown … Okay, now look a bit grim. Go on. It’ll suit you mood.’

They came out on to the front steps, and into the relief of the unsanitised open air. Down on the street a loose semicircle of photographers quickly readjusted itself, and three or four smart young ladies — analysts from the women’s pages (Des recognised the Mirror ’s Carli Gray) — drew nearer. Des said quietly,

‘Sorry about your loss, Uncle Li.’

‘Yeah. Tragic.’ He raised his voice. ‘ Keep you distance now . Guess who the father was. Raoul. Or maybe Fernando. Hey, back off a bit . Or even Azwat! She give it four months, to get the bump. Then she had it out. All as planned. Show some respect there! Exit strategy, see. Ah. Here she is.’

Veil up, sunglasses on, and with a black hankie pressed to the bridge of her nose, ‘Threnody’ took some deep breaths for the cameras … But now the science-fictional Venganza surged inexorably into place; its driver plummeted to the ground and ran to the nearer of the two back-up BMs; and at length Lionel ascended, and the Asbo motorcade moved off. There was more full-blast honking at the first intersection, where Lionel found himself confronted by a slow red light.

Lingering for a moment, Des heard the mechanical melody of an ice-cream van in the distance. He mumbled along with it (‘Uncle Moon’), raising his face to the snowmen and snowwomen, the snowgirls and snowboys of the cooling blue sky, and then slipped back within.

SO THEY STAYED on at the Centre for nearly a week, and tiny Cilla had her jaundice bleached out of her (it was the colour of the undercoat of a healing bruise), and Dawn’s milk began to flow, and Des was regularly and wryly handed the fearful present of the nappy (which, with its settled dankness, seemed to be heavier than the baby), and together they gave her baths, or swims, in the square sink; and Cilla, for her part, marshalled her grip reflex, and coughed and burped, and on the fifth day produced a triumphant sneeze, and, on the sixth, managed to skid a lucky thumb into her sopping mouth …

In late August, two Pepperdines left Avalon Tower; in early September, three came back. Almost immediately Cilla dipped beneath her birth weight, to a pitiable four pounds fifteen, and Des, watching her evaporate, felt himself again lose ground. He was like his Uncle Li. Not happy. Not sad. Numb. And he still couldn’t trust himself to hold her. No , he kept saying. I’ll drop her. I’ll smother her. I’ll crush her. No! But then this changed.

The love bomb exploded on September 29, at 11.45 a.m. Des stood at ground zero.

Their health visitor (an affectionate young widow called Margaret Gentleman) was just leaving, and Des was seeing her out. Bye-bye, Diddums , she said, and bowed to pass him the child. He turned his head, looking for Dawn. Go on , she said, I can’t take her with me! And he was left holding the baby — at arm’s length. So she’s all right then? he called out. And Margaret, hurrying, said, Cilla? Oh she’s gorgeous! … He inspected the warm weight in his arms. The full complement of limbs, the woozily slewing neck (steadied by his fingertips), the vestigially misangled face — whose inquisitive eyes now focused their stare. She was looking at him, or so he felt, in the way that Dawn looked at him when confronted by his frailties and confusions. Not uncritically, but tenderly, forgivingly, and above all knowingly.

He went and entrusted his child to his wife, made some excuse, and bounded down the thirty-three floors. He walked out into Diston with all ten digits raised to his brow, saying to himself, It’s a girl, it’s a girl, it’s a girl …

It’s a girl!

He walked on, smiling, listing, dancing within himself. People looked his way wonderingly, as if for all the world he must be on something, and three different Distonites sidled up and asked him if he was selling any.

‘Have a girl,’ he earnestly told them, as he swivelled and went home for more. ‘It isn’t difficult. Go on. Just have a girl.’

After a tasteful interlude (two and a half weeks), Lionel resumed his materialisations at Avalon Tower … It was different now. He entered, his keys gnashing at the locks, he drank a tin of Cobra, he changed his clothes, he slipped out. He returned, not at daybreak, but at two or three in the afternoon. He drank a cup of tea, changed his clothes, and slipped out again.