Martin Amis - Yellow Dog

Over the past month, a tragedy has unfolded in the heart of Essex.

For two days and two nights, an innocent and injured man — and we’re proud to call him a Lark reader — languished without treatment in a Rotherhithe nick before being released on bail.

He now faces charges of public indecency.

And for what?

Health boffins have long agreed that a regular visit to Thumb Street is crucial to masculine well-being.

Every man-jack of us knows that a decent toss reduces tension, setting you up for the rest of the day.

And there’s nothing better for a good night’s sleep.

Imagine.

In the seclusion of an unoccupied area of a public baths, this stainless individual was seeking relief over his daily edition of the paper you now hold in your hand.

But who should burst in on him but some old boiler with a bucket and mop.

Congratulations, darling!

You f **ked that one up!

In his confusion, and sadly impeded by his clothing, he slipped on the damp stone steps, incurring serious injury.

Little did he know that his tribulation — yes, his martyrdom — was yet to begin.

We say to this man that he has not been forgotten.

We say to this man that we are with him and will stay by his side.

We say: fist your mister for the Walthamstow One.

Clint had briefly admired his bathroom but had not yet used it. Now he lifted the ox-collar; he bestrid the bowl. After a few seconds, he found he was undergoing a sense of gradual depersonalisation, as if about to receive the introductory chords and colours of a lifechanging illness. His stare moved to the left. The basin: how small it was. His stare moved to the right. The bogroll-holder, the actual gauge of the tissue: scaled down. And the can he straddled: like a potty. When you wiped yourself it looked … Yes, there was definitely a gain in contrast. And every little helped.

Strollingly he returned to his studio. Shower and change in a minute: off with the aeroplane-wear (the radiant trainers, the aerodynamic shell suit) and on with something smart. An inaugural drinks party was scheduled for half past five. Meet your fellow — clients? inmates? guests? What did the brochure call them: residents? No, denizens. Denizens of the San Sebastiano Academy for Men of Compact Intromission … The reproduction on the wall facing the picture window. Whew, the state of that Adam. Come on, you’ve got to fit him up a bit better than that. You can’t send him out there with that cashew between his legs.

Was Michelangelo taking the piss — taking the michael? Was God?

‘Qi? Q, i? No no no. You can’t have a q without a u. Now if you let that stand I shall most certainly challenge … Challenge! … Where are we. Q, i, indeed. What does it mean? Ah, do you see, all the q’s have u’s after them. Hello, that’s very odd. “An individual person’s life-force, the free flow of which within the body is believed to ensure physical and spiritual health.” … Well God help us. What happens now? I get docked the points. Bother. And you’ve done it twice : two qi s and an if. On the triple word.’

‘Sixty-nine.’

‘Sixty- nine ? I’m now minus thirteen. And I’m changing my letters. Where’s the bag?’

‘I’m sorry, Daddy, but please may I be excused?’

‘Oh don’t go up now, darling. We’ve barely started. Stay and have a lovely warm hot chocolate at least …’

A minute later Henry said, ‘What would you, Bugger? I’m trying to keep her spirits up and it’s exhausting her. And me. And when I try to draw her out …’

‘Write to her, sir,’ said Brendan. ‘Write.’

The King stayed up late, listening to the Irish Sea. Ewelme stood on the north-western tip of the Welsh peninsula, at the end of a mile-long single-lane causeway. Its situation, together with the infallibly dreadful weather, deterred all intruders — and indeed all visitors: no one who had stayed at Ewelme ever willingly returned. Henry, at his desk, in his overcoat, felt his ears vibrate as the tower bell sounded the quarter-hour. The wind was committing murders in the night, sudden abductions, terrible smotherings …

My dearest sweetheart,

My soul hurts for you, it truly does. I have never seen you so deeply low. Even after Mummy’s accident, the energy of your youth somehow seemed to carry you onward. Now you sleep sixteen hours a day and hardly eat anything. (And when you are awake you’re curled up with the Koran, or the Upanishads or the Targum or God knows what.) I do wish you’d agree to have a chat with Sir Edward, if nothing more.

My darling, I don’t know exactly what is troubling you. I know roughly what is troubling you. While you are in all things the chief sufferer, this ignorance is very heavy for your father. Rather than agonising about something in particular, I find I’m agonising about everything. I dare not close my eyes for fear of what I may see. I implore you to tell me what actually happened in the Yellow House, my dearest (who surprised you there?). And I earnestly do believe that you will feel the benefit. And if you had some sort of a romp with one of those pretty Arab boys, what of it?

The vultures. Our official position is that the material is faked. You and I are aware that the material, at least in part, is not faked. I was less confident than Brendan. None the less, there has been no rebuttal, let alone refutation, which is presumably in the enemies’ power. This is very much to the good (it has quietened things down a bit). Brendan says their silence reflects a certain incapacity on their part. And there is another fairly encouraging likelihood, which I will tell you about if you will only talk to me.

I have just read this through, and it’s such a curate’s egg! ‘Good in parts’ — albeit thoroughly rotten. I yearn to express the unconditional love and sympathy I feel, but I just sound selfish and pompous. It’s my poor character!

Sweetheart, my one, my only jewel, I beseech you: let us be in this together. I want to reach out and physically take some of the weight from your shoulders. Remember. It’s we two now.

Captain John Macmanaman : How’s our Flight Engineer?

First Officer Nick Chopko : Out cold.

Macmanaman : He can coax the computer along, I’ll give him that. I’d have killed it and gone to direct law … You know the rooftiles they have in England? Sheets of grey slate?

Chopko : Like machetes.

Macmanaman : This one, you could see it coming. Rennie thought it was a dead bird. It just twirled into him. Here.

Chopko : Jesus.

Macmanaman : … Royce Traynor was only ever going to fly CigAir when he was in the condition he’s in today.

Chopko : Dead.

Macmanaman : Dead. For him it was like a mission. Rennie said there was nothing — repeat, nothing — he liked more than telling someone to put a cigarette out. He’d get up in the middle of the night and call a cab if there was a good chance of telling someone to put a cigarette out. And get this. Rennie smoked a pack a day for forty-three years without him knowing. He would have killed her. Killed her. I think she did it to have something on him, to stick it to him. Why don’t people leave, Nick? Why don’t they just leave?

Chopko : I don’t know either.

Macmanaman : Addictive personality … I don’t like it up here. It’s too thin up here. I don’t like the physics of it up here. The difference between max and stall is just a couple of knots. It’s like a slide on black ice. Ask for three seven oh. Wait. The windshear: feel it’s moving around in back of us. It’s like … Uh, put everybody down, Nick. And the girls when they’ve secured the carts. This is my third time and I can feel it coming. There’s clear air [clear air turbulence] out there. I can feel it this time.