Martin Amis - Lionel Asbo

IN DISTON THERE were many thousands of pylons, and they all sizzled. The worst stretch of Cuttle Canal was as active as a geyser: it spat and splatted, blowing thick-lipped kisses to the hastening passers-by. Beyond Jupes Lanes sprawled Stung Meanchey (so christened by its inhabitants, who were Korean), a twelve-acre dump of house-high electronic waste, old computers, televisions, phones and fridges: lead, mercury, beryllium, aluminium. Diston hummed. Background radiation, background music for a half-life of fifty-five years.

He heard Lionel attacking the locks. The snaps and rattles dispersed his soothing daydream. In this daydream, diligent Daphne was applying herself to a tall stack of mail. She unsheathed Desmond’s letter; her frown melted into a lenient twinkle; and she started to type her reply. You poor dear, you must have been worried out of your wits. And all for no reason! Happily, following an amendment to the law in 1979, it is no longer … But now Lionel stomped in. Lionel stomped in, with two unlabelled quart bottles of liquor (one of them half empty), plus a takeaway mutton vindaloo — for the dogs.

‘I tasted success’, he said, ‘with Ross Knowles. At the tenth attempt. But here. Summon up all you courage, Des, and have a look at this.’

Lionel seemed stirred, stimulated, if not downright drunk (and, as always, one size bigger than expected). Yet Des could tell that something was wrong, and he sensed danger … Lionel wasn’t drunk — he never got drunk. He put away suicidal quantities of alcohol; and he never got drunk. It was the same with dope, blow, crack, aitch, e, and methamphetamine. Nothing had any effect on him (there was no intoxication, and no repercussion). In this sphere at least, Lionel was steady-state. But tonight he had a look of lit purpose in him, and something was wrong.

Lionel now upended the quart bottle and took six swallows, seven, eight. He wiped his mouth on his wrist and said, ‘This is what this country’s come to, Des. A national newspaper printing this .’ With finger and thumb, and with some show of fastidiousness, Lionel took from his back pocket a rolled copy of the Morning Lark . ‘Second page of Classifieds. They calling them GILFs .’

‘Jesus … That one’s seventy-eight!’

‘GILFs, Des. Topless at seventy-eight. What’s she doing still living at seventy-eight? Leave alone topless! And that’s a uh, a contradiction in terms, that is, Des. GILFs. Grans I’d Like to … Nobody’d like to fuck a gran. Now would they. Contradiction in terms.’ Lionel added vaguely, ‘Suppose you could call them NILFs.’

‘NILFs?’

‘NILFs. Nans I’d Like to … And that’s England, Des. A once-proud nation. Look. Beefy Bedmate Sought by Bonking Biddy . That’s England.’

It was a clear night in early May with a tang of chill in it. Des wiped the sweat from his upper lip.

‘… What’s up with you, Des? You got a funny look on you face.’

‘No, I’m fine, Uncle Li. So uh, so you got a result today. With Ross Knowles.’

‘What? Oh. Change of subject, is it.’ He yawned and went on blandly, ‘Yeah, I’m outside the Watch Ward with me grapes. And here I’ve had a bit of luck. The copper’s there — but he’s on a stretcher. With blood coming out of his ears. One of them uh, superbugs, I don’t know.’

Des shrugged and said, ‘Diston General.’

‘Yeah. Diston General … So now I’m stood over the bed and he opens his eyes. I never raised me voice above a whisper. I said uh, Remember me, Mr Knowles? Or may I call you Ross? I sincerely apologise, Ross, for any distress caused. See, that night, I wasn’t meself. I was suffering for love. For love, Ross. How would you feel, how would you feel, Ross, if the girl of you dreams got porked by you best mate? ’

‘He say anything, Uncle Li?’

‘No. His jaws’re wired shut. Then I go, You got to understand, Ross, that I’m a very unbalanced young man. Now if you proceed with this matter, I’ll be inside for — what? Eight months? A year? But when I come out, Ross, I’ll do you again. Only worse. And go straight back inside. Because I’m stupid , I am. I’m stupid … So he had a think and we settled out of court.’

‘What you give him?’

‘I give him a bunch of grapes.’ Lionel stood up and said, ‘I call it the moron theory, Des. You can’t go wrong with it. Okay. Where’s they Tabasco?’

The dogs were tonguing the glass door. Lionel stood at the counter by the fridge, shaking out jets of chilli over the fuming meat. With the two bowls under the span of his palms, he slid and then kicked his way out on to the balcony. Des readied the rogan josh.

‘Ah, rogan josh,’ said Lionel. ‘You know where you are with a rogan josh.’

As they poked at their food (Lionel was in any case an erratic eater, and Des felt full to his craw), a heavy silence began to fuse and climb. A muscular, pumped-up, steroidal silence, a Lionel silence, shrill enough to smother the parched whimpers of Jeff and Joe …

‘It’s too hot for them,’ mouthed Des drily.

Now Lionel flung his irons aside. He turned and stiffly extended his legs, and folded his arms with a grunt. Minutes passed. He stood, and took several turns round the room, staring critically at his shoes. Minutes passed.

‘You know, I’m ever so slightly concerned’, he said, ‘about you gran.’

‘Yeah?’ Des swallowed. ‘Why’s that?’

‘Her morals.’

‘Her morals?’

‘Yeah, you know old Dudley.’

‘Dudley. Yeah.’ Dudley was the cheerful racist in the next granny flat along.

‘Dudley. Old Dud. He reckons he hears noises .’

‘… What sort of noises?’

‘Groans.’ Lionel looked ceilingward. ‘As if, God forbid, someone’s giving her one …’

Des managed to say, ‘Uh, that’s prejudicial, that is, Uncle Li. Could be groaning from something else. Pain.’

‘You know, Des, that’s exactly what I thought. That’s exactly what I thought. In fact, I give old Dud a thump for the uh, for the insinuation. She’d never do that to me, Mum. Not Mum, mate! Not my mum!’

For a moment Des believed that Lionel was about to start crying; but his face cleared and he said conversationally,

‘I know she used to see the odd bloke. Toby and that. But when Dominic passed away she had a change of heart. Turned over a new leaf. She said to me, Lionel? When you dad died, he give up his life for his little boy. He’d’ve done the same for you. Or for Cilla. And I’m going to respect that, Lionel. Respect Dom’s memory. So no more of me blokes . And she has a little laugh and says, And look at me. I’m well past it anyway! … But now — but now there’s these groans .’

Des said, ‘I’m in and out all the time. And I never see anything.’

‘Mm. Well keep you eyes peeled, Des. Look in the bathroom. Razor. Extra toothbrush. Anything uh, untoward.’

‘Course I will.’

‘Mm … The groaning granny. It’s pain. That’s all it is. It’s her time of life. Gaa, Des, you wouldn’t believe what they suffer. During the Change. It’s they insides. You creeping off again tonight?’

Des had a date with Gran. He scratched his chest and said, ‘Nah. I’ll stop home. Watch the football. Might take the dogs out. In a bit.’

‘… It’s they insides. There’s all this stuff down there raring to go wrong … My mum some GILF? No. My mum some bonking biddy? No.’

Minutes later Des reeled down the infinite staircase with Jeff and Joe. Now this really did do his head in — because Gran never groaned. Not with pain, not with passion. He brought his fingertips to his temples and searched the windtunnels and the echo chambers of his aural memory. He heard her laughter (the long-ago laughter), he heard her sing scraps of Beatles songs, and again he heard her laughter (the more recent laughter, abandoned, and with an unnerving edge to it). But Gran never groaned. It was Jade and Alektra who kicked up a racket (at least when their mums weren’t indoors) — not Gran. Gran groan? Never …