Martin Amis - Lionel Asbo

‘ Pissing herself.’

‘They all will. I’ll be a laughing stock. A mere figure of fun. So I’m due, Jack. Come on. I’m owed.’

‘Threnody’, Raoul, Jack Firth-Heatherington — and who else?

Lord Barcleigh (the famous face, the famous girth) sat in an armchair with a tray on his lap. Facing him was another learned-looking gentleman, in an open shirt (with white cravat). They talked in regretful whispers. Sebastian Drinker, with solemn nods, was writing on a yellow pad.

At the other end of the room, in profile with folded arms, stood a woman in a white veil. She was looking out through the far window.

‘I’m owed. I’m due.’

Time passed.

‘I’m due.’

‘… Mr Asbo will see you now, sir.’

Carmody gracefully gave way to Mal MacManaman, who was waiting in the hall.

‘Desmond,’ he said, and offered his hand.

At a meditative pace he started up the stairs.

‘Your uncle,’ he said, ‘your uncle had a bad reaction to the death of his mother. Up in Scotland there. Funny, isn’t it? He didn’t seem that attached, I thought. But with these things you never know. Anyway, he went and did himself a bit of an injury. To his brain. That’s what they reckon. And then there’s all this other trouble. I wonder if you’ll find him changed. Here.’ He reached out and dimmed the light. ‘Go on in. You’re expected.’

The room was the colour of beetroot, thickly dark but with a shade of mauve in it.

‘Wait. Wait till you eyes adapt …’

Des could see a slowly glowing throb in the middle distance. It made his body remember the lighthouse on the northern shore; it made his body remember the sound of his daughter’s heart.

‘See anything yet? Come on, Des. Come and sit by here.’

He felt his way past heavy furnishings, then crossed a spongy expanse of rugs or hides. In the manner of an usherette in an ancient picture house, Lionel used his cigar to illuminate the bedside chair.

‘… I can’t eat. Can’t drink. Christ, I can’t even smoke . Tastes horrible. But it’s something to do. I can cough. I can retch. I can scratch . There’s a word for it, Des. Hang on. Formication . You feel you flesh is covered in ants.’ He took a long drag, and the coal swelled and grinned like an evil eye.

‘Who let the dogs in?’

‘Oh. First things first, is it.’ Lionel tried and failed to shoulder himself higher on the pillows. He sank back. ‘ Un .’ In a tranced voice, with a long lull at every period, he said, ‘I was under the doctors in Scotland. Little bit the worse for wear, Des. On the Monday I come back and shut meself up in here. I could’ve made a phone call. But I didn’t. Decided to wait for Tuesday and me Diston Gazette . Superstitious if you like. I went through it with a pencil torch to spare me eyes. And it was just the usual stuff. Knifings and that. Blindings. No report, no report of the uh, the very sad tragedy at Avalon Tower. And you won’t believe this, Des, but you know what I thought? I thought, I thought, Maybe I’ll live.’

‘Who let the dogs in?’

‘All right,’ said Lionel, and raised a palm. ‘Some might say I uh, overreacted. Went a bit over the top. Pass us that tin, Des. And don’t come it all innocent with me.’

The gold Zippo flared but cast no light.

‘So, Des, satisfy me curiosity. Uh, what went wrong?’

He was like a dog himself — down on all fours, the whirring limbs, the famished whimpers. He was under the table, under the couch, behind the basket, beyond the chair. There was no blood, no blood, and no baby. There was no baby .

With jagged effort and difficulty he got himself upright. He strode towards the balcony, he closed and locked the sliding door. The dogs were swiftly circling. And wait. He would now have to rip Jak apart, rip Jek apart — his hands in the wet jaws, forcing, splitting. He turned to face the unfathomable room .

Then his eyes settled on the burnished cube of the tank. The lid was down. Yesterday the lid was up — and now the lid was down. He went to the thing and threw it wide …

Cilla lay on the half-filled rubbish bag, in her nappy, her chest rising and falling … He pictured it (and again heard it): Jek’s first bound, Jak’s first bound, the toppled table, the twirling girl, and the tank snapping shut .

He kissed her eyes until they opened. They opened, and her eyes beamed up at him .

* * *

‘Well well. Huh. So it come in useful, did it. In the end.’

Des stood. He took a few steps forward, a few steps back. He sat, he stood, he sat.

‘Easy, Des. Easy, son. Gaa, hear them birds? … Okay. Cape Wrath. You know, Des, when I woke up Saturday morning. I wasn’t in that suite. No. Just in a normal room. And it looked like about thirty blokes ’d got pissed in there the night before. Bottles everywhere. All empty. And me poor old DILF. Dear oh dear. With two black eyes and lying in her own dinner. And Jesus Christ, Des, the state of you Uncle Li you wouldn’t fucking believe. And I’m standing there. I’m standing there thinking about you kitchen floor. And I did not feel too clever. I did not feel too clever.’

‘Who let the dogs in?’

‘Not in ,’ he said, and swiped a raised finger. ‘You don’t let them in . You open the door a crack and the dogs do it theyselves. Acting on they own initiative. Not in .’

‘Who?’

‘I was elsewhere, you honour. Up in Scotland with me DILF.’

‘Who? Who?’

‘Marlon,’ said Lionel in momentary defeat. ‘The Floater. But that’s a uh, a technicality. Think , Des. Did Marlon let the dogs in? Did I let the dogs in? No. You let the dogs in. You let the dogs in … You fucked my mum. And you me nephew .’

‘And? And?’

‘Well. We’ll have to see, won’t we. The fact remains. Des, the fact remains. You can’t go round giving you uncle’s mum one. Giving you own gran one. No.’

‘All right.’

From his back pocket Des took a white envelope and placed it on the quilt.

‘There’s a sealed copy of that in the safe at the Mirror . There’s a sealed copy of that in the vault at the bank. There’s a sealed copy of that in the editor’s desk at the Diston Gazette .’

‘Go on then. What’s it say?’

‘What’s it say? Everything. Gran and me.’ And at this point Des actually thought that he need go no further. It was enough: Gran and me was enough. Lionel was already flapping a limp hand in the air as Des pressed on. ‘Gran and Rory Nightingale. Rory and you. The envelope at the Mirror ’s got something else in it.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Rory’s lip ring. With the dried blood. Rory’s blood.’

Lionel positioned a fresh cigar. Again the gold Zippo with its flabby flame. Now you could see the rusty stubble on his chin and cheeks, the wildly mobile eyes in the crimson mouths of their lids.

‘So. If anything happens.’

‘Yeah yeah yeah.’

‘Anything at all.’

‘Yeah yeah yeah yeah … Nice effort, Des. Typical. Finking youself out of it. Anyway. Truth to tell, son — truth to tell, I’ll be going away for a bit as it is.’

‘What you go and do now?’

‘Mm. The DILFs’re acting up. Not her in Scotland. Not yet. But once one starts, they all … These two Mayfair DILFs. Yeah, it’s been building for a while, this has, Des. Be all over the papers in a minute.’ He coughed, scrapingly, scouringly (you could hear the meshing threads of phlegm in his chest). ‘See, with them other birds, you can bat them around a bit and then settle out of court. But you DILF — she’s got some self-respect. Worse, she’s got some fucking money …’