Martin Amis - Yellow Dog

Joseph Andrews pushed open a red-leather swing door with a porthole in its brow. Around a cardtable you could see a fat hot man in braces, a small natty figure in a borsalino and a chalk-striped suit, a Chinese woman with a pair of sunglasses lodged in her quiff, and the set of a pair of unknowable shoulders. Cora went inside and the door swung shut behind her.

‘ You’ve got some arsehole coming here, haven’t you mate? Are you daft or what? This way: follow me. Follow me.’

Xan was led into a long low room: its recreation of an English pub was not entirely literal, but there were damp beermats and glistening black plastic ashtrays on the round tables, as well as a dartboard, and horsebrass and horsehair and prints of racing scenes. A log fire drew noisily in the hearth, like emphysema, with additional sputters and spatters.

‘First, the past,’ he said, and lengthily exhaled. ‘I’ll say this for Mick Meo: you’d have to hurt him. I’ll say this: you knew you was in a row when you was in a row with Mick Meo. You’d have to hurt him. A wall. A drop. We had it out the once back in them days, before he come on board. And it went on a bit but I done him. Six months later, when he’s up and about again, he come on board and there was no hard feelings whatsoever. Him and me, we’d have a drink. On several occasions he invited me to his home. Consistently. I’d have little Leda on me knee. This was before your time, son.

‘Then come the liberty. We was both in Strangeways. He’d pulled a three for grand larceny, whilst I was serving me six for uh … for malicious wounding. Now. Our mate Tony Odgers has lost remission for doing the two screws who’ve burnt a letter from his wife — in his face. I’ve said to Mick, “I’m not having that. I’ll do the Governor.” And Mick’s gone, “ I’ll do him.” And I’ve gone, “No I’ll do him.” And Mick’s gone, “I’m not having that. No I’ll do him.” Deadlock.’

Said with a lingering stress on the last consonant, like the beginning of a cough, and joining all the other coughs in the log fire.

‘So we’ve had a word with the Chaplain. It’s arranged. A straightener, with gloves, in the main quad. It sometimes happened in them days. You sort it out, with the uh, permission of the Governor. The Governor didn’t know what it’s about , of course …’

Xan said, ‘What was it about?’

‘… About who’d do the Governor.’

‘Yeah but who’d do the Governor? The winner or the loser?’

‘Are you all right mate? … Well in the end they’ve had to drag us off ourselves. We was in the same ward in the hospital, but I’ve had it the worst because I’ve done one of the screws who’ve truncheoned us apart. Mick come out in the morning — and then come back that afternoon. In an appalling condition. I could tell by the state of him what he’s done: he’s done the Governor! Well I’m not having that. In the middle of the night I’ve slid out of me bed and crawled across the floor on me hands and knees and started giving him a whacking. Then they’ve shipped me off to Gartree. And after that, it’s a funny thing: Mick and me was never on the out at the same time. And never in the same prison. And for them twenty years the liberty’s festered …

‘Then I’m over to London from Dublin: bit of business. I’ve heard he’s come home and I’ve gone to the yard and I’ve called him out. He’s said, “What’s all this?” “What’s all this? You done the Governor, you cunt.” Then he reckons that he’s worked that one off: “Me in me hospital bed and you clawing me fucking stitches apart.” So I’ve gone, “All right. You want a liberty. Here’s a liberty. Are you married to a fucking elephant?”’

Andrews paused. The log fire gobbed and hawked and retched. It, too, was like England: bus shelters, station waiting-rooms, the pub Gents on a Friday night.

‘When’s your birthday, cock?’

Xan told him.

‘No it ain’t. “ Your wife a fucky nelephant needs thirteen months to have a fucking baby? ” And I’ve took the piece of paper from me pocket,’ said Andrews, taking the piece of paper from his pocket — the zippered pouch of his oilblack tracksuit. ‘Registration of birth. And I’ve wiggled it in his face. “Where was you, nine months back from this? You was in fucking Winson Green, that’s where. I’ve stuffed your wife and I’ve knocked her up and all. Your boy, he ain’t your boy. He’s fucking mine.”

‘Now that was me mistake … I overplayed me hand, you might say. Because he’s like grim fucking death then he is, so that nothing … nothing … So he’s giving me what for on the bare boards of the shed. And as he’s putting me lights out I’m thinking, Well it’s not your day, mate. Should have stayed in bed. But, you know, fair’s fair. See, stuffing other villains’ wives, it’s like a statement. The right of señor you could call it. It says to the bloke: let’s have you. And if he does you he does you. And Mick must have still had the hump because five days later he crippled Damon Susan and went away for his nine, out of me reach.

‘… So I’m lying there, taking me medicine, as you got to do, and who should enter upon the scene, sticking his fucking oar in, but you , you cunt. Now I know Mick give you punishment. But that was my punishment, not yourn. And I’m not having that. Me own son, and all. Me own boy. Did that to his own father … You’re very quiet over there.’

‘Yeah that’s right.’

‘Ooh. May I enquire why?’

It had not been a failure of courage. It had been a failure of inclination — or of appetite. Xan said,

‘Why? Because I’m trying not to corpse, mate. You’re a fucking old joke , you are, boy. Look at you, you fucking old joke.’

‘… Last time your mum come to see him in the nick she was eight months gone. She’s bound herself up. And broke four ribs. “I’ve had him,” she said. He’s said, “Then where is he?” “They’re doing his jaundice at Princess Beatrice.” Ten weeks later she’ve took you to the Green, and Mick said you was a bit little but of course she’s blamed it on the doctors … Dead dirty, your mum. Like your sister. Loved me muck on her face. Still in your chair are you?’

Joseph Andrews got to his feet — and the terrible moonbright dots of the trainers began to dance their dance, barely skimming off the stone floor. ‘I still love a row,’ he said. ‘Ah I still love a good mill. Don’t worry, mate. The hospital’s nice and near.’

‘I don’t see why you uh—’

‘Yeah well I’m turning nasty in me old age … Look at you. All I’ve took from you.’

‘How old are you, Jo? Yeah, and look at the state of him. Gaw, that’s a liberty, eh? That’s a right kick in the arse, what anno domini’s gone and done to you. And there’s no vengeance for it. Why aren’t you not having that ? But no. He just bends over and waits for more of the same.’

Joseph Andrews took up position by the door. He seemed to be weighing something in his hands as he intoned, ‘A man fights … with his arsehole. Power comes … in the form of anger, up through the arsehole,’ he said heavily, breathing out. ‘The righteous anger of the just. Up … it comes … up though the arsehole … and into the lining of a man. Come on. Where is it. Let’s see it. Let’s have it.’

Xan observed that Andrews was the sort of man who, in preparation, exhibits not the upper teeth but the lower. He got to his feet and walked towards him, saying,

‘I’m not fighting that. I’m not touching that. You got … you got fucking drool all over your chin. Out of the road, you old joke. You old poof.’