Martin Amis - Lionel Asbo

In the forecourt he ducked into the sketchily vandalised phonebox.

Does she groan because she’s got some wasting disease she never told me about? Or does she groan because she —!

The thought stopped dead.

He made the call and postponed their meeting for twenty-four hours. He didn’t tell Gran anything, yet, about Dudley and the groans.

DAY CAME. HE heard a snatch, a twist, of weak birdsong; slowly the city heaved into life; and by eight o’clock the whole Tower was a foundry of DIY — hammers, grinders, the gnawing whine of power sanders … Des took a shower and drank a cup of tea. Lionel was sleeping in; he had gone out late and stayed out late (boisterously returning just after five). His door was open, and for a moment Des paused in the passage. This was once his mother’s room. That tall swing mirror: she used to appraise herself in front of it, with a palm flat on her midriff, full face, in profile, once again full face; and then she’d be gone. Now Lionel rolled on to his back — the heaving chest, the dredging snore.

Outside it was bright and dry — and drunkenly stormy. Gates flapped and banged, dustbins tumbled, shutters clattered. And Des, today, felt that he would give his eyesight for a minute’s peace, a minute’s quiet. Just to get his head straight. But his thoughts wandered, and he wandered after them, under a swift and hectic sky. Women, mothers, noticed it, the density of trouble in the childish roundness of his face. Long-legged in shorts and blazer, carrying a satchel, and stopping every ten yards to run tremulous fingers through the close files of his hair.

… On the streets of Cairo the ambient noise, scientifically averaged out, was ninety decibels, or the equivalent of a freight train passing by at a distance of fourteen feet (the ambient noise caused partial deafness, neuroses, heart attacks, miscarriages). Town wasn’t quite as noisy as Cairo, but it was famous for its auto-repair yards, sawmills, and tanneries, and for its lawless traffic; it seemed also to get more than its fair share of demolitions, roadworks, municipal tree-prunings and leaf-hooverings, and more than its fair share of car alarms, burglar alarms, and fire alarms (the caff hates the van! the bike hates the shop! the pub hates the bus!), and, of course, more than its fair share of sirens.

In this sector of the world city, compact technology had not yet fully supplanted the blaring trannies and boom boxes and windowsill hi-fi speakers. People yelled at each other anyway, but now they yelled all the louder. Nor were Jeff and Joe the only neighbourhood dogs who suffered from canine Tourette’s. The foul-mouthed pitbulls, the screeching cats, the grimily milling pigeons; only the fugitive foxes observed their code of silence.

Diston, with its burping, magmatic canal, its fizzy low-rise pylons, its buzzing waste. Diston — a world of italics and exclamation marks.

On his way to school Des slipped into the Public Library on Blimber Road. This was a place where you could actually hear yourself cough, sigh, breathe — where you could hear the points and junctions of your own sinuses. He made straight for the radiant Reading Room with its silvery motes of dust.

First, naturally, he wrenched open the Sun , and thrashed his way to ‘Dear Daphne’. Worries about getting an erection, worries about keeping an erection, the many girls whose married boyfriends wouldn’t leave their wives, the many boys who loved the feel of women’s clothing: all this, but nothing about a fifteen-year-old and his nan. Eleven days had passed since he posted his letter. Why hadn’t Daphne printed it? Was it too terrible? No (or so a part of him still wanly hoped): it was too trivial.

Des closed his eyes and saw himself in the granny flat at the age of thirteen. He was, as usual, weeping into his sleeve — while Gran stroked his hair and softly hummed along with that emollient melody, ‘Hey Jude’. Hey Jude, don’t make it bad, Take a sad song And make it better . The hugs, the hand-clasps, the vast and trackless silences. Gran said that grief was like the sea; you had to ride the tides ( So let it out and let it in, hey Jude, begin ), and then, after months, after years …

Now in the sidestreet two hammer drills revved up, atomising his thoughts. And just then an old janitor (the one with the ponytail and the dented cheeks) stuck his head round the door.

‘Why you not in school?’

‘Got a project,’ said Des. And reapplied himself to his Sun .

International news. Slaughter in Darfur. N. Korea’s breakout N-test? Dozens slain in Mex drug clash … After a look over his shoulder, he reached out an unsteady hand for the Independent (which was at least recognisably tabloidal in size). He expected the spidery print to exclude him. But it didn’t; it let him in … Des read all the international news in the Independent , and then moved on to the Times . When he looked at his watch it was half past four (and he was keenly hungry).

He had spent eight hours in the place called World.

‘I’ve been reading the papers.’

‘What papers?’

‘The proper ones. The Guardian and that.’

‘You don’t want to read the papers, Des,’ said Lionel, turning the page of his Morning Lark and smoothly realigning its wings: Hubbie Nabbed Over Wheelie Bin Corpse Find. With a look of the sharpest disappoval, he added, ‘All that’s none of you concern.’

‘So you don’t follow it — all that … Uncle Li, why are we in Iraq?’ Lionel turned the page: Noreen’s Lezbo Boob Romp Shock. ‘Or don’t you know about Iraq?’

‘Course I know about Iraq,’ he said without looking up. ‘9/11, mate. See, Des, on 9/11, these blokes with J-cloths on they heads went and —’

‘But Iraq had nothing to do with 9/11!’

‘So? … Des, you being very naïve. See, America’s top boy. He’s the Daddy. And after a fucking liberty like 9/11, well, it’s all off, and the Daddy lashes out.’

‘Yeah, but who at?’

‘Doesn’t matter who at. Anyone’ll do. Like me and Ross Knowles. It’s the moron theory. Keeps them all honest.’

Lionel turned the page: Knife Yobs Dodge Nick, Proves Probe. Des sat back and said wonderingly,

‘When it started, Uncle Li. I mean don’t we have allies in the region? They can’t’ve been too happy about it. The instability. Our allies in the region.’

‘Allies?’ said Lionel wearily. ‘What allies?’

‘Uh, Saudi Arabia. Turkey … Egypt. I bet they weren’t too pleased.’

‘ So ? Jesus Christ, Des, you can’t half bang on.’

‘They’re our allies. What did we tell them?’

Lionel dropped his head. ‘What d’you think we told them? We told them, Listen. We doing Iraq, all right? And if you fucking want some, you can fucking have some and all .’ He levelled his shoulders. ‘Now shut it. I’m reading this.’

And Des entertained the image of a planet-sized Hobgoblin at twelve o’clock on a Friday night. This was the place called World.

‘Gaa. Look, Des. More GILFs.’

The cat was there again. The cat was there again — at the end of the tunnel that led to Grace. Hairless and whiskerless, as bald as a white hotwater bottle, with its soft, ancient, ear-hurting cry … He pressed the bell, and heard the fluffy pink slippers padding towards the mat (as the tape played ‘Dear Prudence’).

‘Gran,’ he was almost immediately saying. ‘The groans.’

‘Groans? What are you talking about?’

He told her. ‘And you don’t groan, do you,’ he said. ‘Do you?’

‘… I do groan,’ she said carefully. ‘Now and then. You just don’t notice. Ah, old Dud , what would he know?’